Their ashes
where my father used to kneel
planting
where my mother used to bend
picking
As she puts
water on for tea
from my own pile
of bones and ashes
I reassess hers
In a crowded mountain bus
the endlessly monotonous
talk about Buddhist scriptures
when all I want to listen to
are the wheels on the road
The degrees to which
the closed fairgrounds
brings in even more
spellbinding beauty
to the sunset
In early spring mist
my lover floats across fields
from one dream
of sweet grass
to another
Our old
peacefully
decaying bodies
talking to children
selling lemonade
For anyone who sings
by a small window
in a small room
in the depths of
dying light
In the bedroom
sweeping up popcorn
from the night before
I see the hopeful eyes
of birds in the window
_____________________________
Ronald Baatz
One Oblivious Orange Fish
