Fruit of the flesh
Time itself is not change
nor does wisdom
come with age :
the fine powdery snow
blowing at our window
will not settle
it will be gone tomorrow
though today
we find ourselves
landlocked
trapped within a moment
within the taut dimensions
of our own making
and with decisions
on the tip
of the tongue
Last night not a peep
from the foxes
snugly buried
in their burrows
the quiet universe
a soundstage
for our words
stars falling
in icy fragments
and always
the question of love
fruit of the flesh
and what if anything
we will make of it
John Lyons
Reposted from yesterday with corrections