The Avenues

Poetry has fled for a moment,
replaced by the grinding of gears
and a shiny new cover.

It has returned, though,
much to my surprise.

It is perhaps more common,
more heady, touched
with the necessitudes of a life
not yet lived.

To dream is divine, yet to live
is somewhat benign,
unless one walks bravely to the cliff
and faces the wind
with the water on their face.

I’ve seen the avenues
that proudly stand,
their trees and broad trunks
of my own pastime,
yet I hold the future is unwritten,
to be taken by my whim,
my hopes, and my fancy.