“This is getting harder now
I’m tired of trees and air and water
I despise nature as much
As it has abandoned me”
My belittling smirks anger him
He returns to his pages
For a bit and then his despair
Comes forth and submits
Beside the small blue lake
With white pages strewn about
His eyes towards mine
And my lips parted in speech
I remind him about
The Red Wheelbarrow
Just before the final grind, I
A blunt edge on a dead stone
Embellished the last hours
And savoured the thoughts
Enabled vicariously through fiction
Do you see the caveat in his eyes?
I don’t and thus I sit beside
And watch him drown
His things in the river
See how that rivulet goes forth!
See how it cuts through the rocks
Abandoning all it once belonged to
How much courage would it have taken?
His hands work wildly
Till his fingers can only
Flay through the dirt
And then pause at my shoulder
There is that caveat again
His eyes betray him
I see it now
You should stay away
If the two young men
Who sit and stare silently
At each other’s meal
Their eyes still and hesitant
Their lips parted and unsure
If all they share
Are wry smiles and meaningful nods
Then the two old men
Will recognize each other
And smile and nod alike
At the behest
Of a few wise men
Our air and light
Now pass through a sieve
That took eons to perfect
They dwelt on each opening
On each crevice’s use
Altering their shape and size
And monitoring my each word
As I devoured all that slipped through
Now they treat me well
For I am still of use to them
Each day, many come to see
The result of initial imperfections
And feel grateful to the wise men
A True Sentence 