Growing up,

My father often said,

“Be like a man, ...

I frequently look back,

Trying to catch instants,

Escaping through my hands. ...

There are whiles,

We must wait,

For the right time, ...

When the time arrives,

We all fade.

It’s nature’s way. ...

Magic resides,

In ordinary,

Yet obscure spots. ...

Eyes,

Too can talk.

Silently, ...

When the path is clear,

But the end,

Anything but near, ...

Standing with others,

Is easy,

Often reassuring. ...

Golden age relics,

Never cease to shine.

Unless they are old, ...

There still are a few,

Who wear their fame,

In a most humble way.

We bloomed,

In lush green fields,

Dancing with colors, ...

Dangling frozen, or

Feeling upside down.

Not every day, ...

Some things we see,

Seem hard to believe.

And the world is filled, ...

Flying through the air,

To faraway places.

Whether in a plane, ...

Today I perceived,

That over time,

Wood also wrinkles, ...

We walk through time,

Leaving our tracks.

As snows slowly melt, ...

Everything has a price.

Even fame,

A dangerous game, ...

For years,

I sought recognition,

Without asking why. ..

Holes,

Are just reminders,

Of what once was, ...

Another grey foggy day.

A violin concerto,

Gently plays, ...