There is nothing for me here

but images and the passage of time.

I can’t find a center, can’t imagine

my place or purpose in all of this.

If I said Peace aloud, made it gentle

but emphatic, with my hat over my

heart, would anyone respond?

Can any word I imagine carry

meaning into an afternoon

of cold rain, wet wool, muddy shoes?

I see smiles under great

irrelevant clouds.

I should think of a word that can live

in such cold, rain slick hours.

I should say flower, ceramic,

grandmother, butterfly, light.

And from all of them, to which

I add clock for a flavor of time,

I choose grandmother,

then I turn and go home.

Kyle Kimberlin

Thursday, December 30, 2004