Sludging

Peat, up to my waist’s side,
I turn back, with a cramp in my neck’s back,
To admire the path I’ve hacked.

Whim

My father's eyes flicker a pleading light,
Tenderly threatening to snuff out my
Just lit tinder hopes and dreams.
He often says, "I have done nothing worth—
While in my life, except give you life."
Are the Father and Son really one Spirit?
I wonder if the son of Lapetus
Feels such an enduring weight? Other times,

My father fondly tells tales of the
Textile mills in Covington GA, around
Which he played all day while workers
Spun out their dreams on obsolete machines.
As if on a whim, I wished to see in
Those windows now void of life and dreams.

Whim

Yearly, millions of Japanese
Dutifully, instinctively,
Converge on parks for hanami,
To reflect on the ephemeral
Nature of life by indulging
In fresh Plum wine.
Within a week,
The sakura indifferently die.

Kimagure bought the sakura
Patterned textile in the window
On a mere whime; wishing to save,
Just once, her lungs from the loaded
Mixture of cigarettes, Plum wine,
And scent of fallen sakura