A quiet canyon

A quiet canyon,
A dry river bed,
A dusty existence.

Dusk gathers,
Like grey blue sheets of flannel,
Falling into the canyon,
And filling it from every direction.

A wind roars down from the prairie above,
It stumbles into the canyon,
It swirls around,
And the canyon begins to sing.

The wind moves the darkened air,
It whistles in the crevices,
And howls in the dry and lonely space.

It finds it's way out,
And all is quiet again.

Stars appear,
So very far above the prairie,
And farther still from the canyon floor.

Night blackens,
Blacker in the canyon,
Then anywhere above.

Ancient rocks begin to cool,
And sleep again.


copyright 2009, all rights reserved

White Paper Flowers

Strewn upon the sidewalk,
admidst the cigarette butts,
and the candy wrappers,
and other asundry litter,
were white paper flowers.

The breeze picked one up,
and then another,
and they were dancing,
for a moment.

And then they were laid down again.
And the moment was lost.
And they became litter again.

They were leftover moments,
symbols of a wedding day,
or baby shower,
or some other celebration,
but they were no longer needed.

They served their purpose for the people that left them.
And now they had served their purpose for the person that noticed them.
Strewn upon the sidewalk,
among the cigarette butts,
and candy wrappers,
and other asundry litter,
white paper flowers,
for the breeze to play with,
to make a stranger smile.

copyright 2009, all rights reserved