Robert Verdon, #162, now, through the sky

letters fly

to my door, brimful of past;

light checks in after leaping gaps

that shrink the warring world to an atom;

sad jazz shuffles home, muted breath of autumn,

soughing wind arrives like a rose, owned as yet by no one;

the yucca flower finally blooms, pale yellow and alone;

fresh gases seep in, not too thin, keeping me in the pink;

stinks invade, inviting as honey on hot, chewed hair;

clouds come, like bleached coral,

death on the tide, bones akimbo;

sunsets appear, message melodious and clear,

tasting of apricot jam:

is this all that life can be?

and

is this all I am?