If I am a pianist,
where does the music go
when I have no piano to play?
If I am a gardener,
where do the flowers bloom
when I have no garden to plant?
If I am a teacher,
where do the lessons land
when I have no students to teach?
If I am a mountaineer,
where do the footprints lead
when I have no mountain to climb?
If I am a seeker,
where does the truth hide
when I have no questions to ask?
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Memories of Trees
We know where the shadow
Went: it evaporated,
Embroidering the silence.
A hundred thousand pines
That tree limbs crossed
And beded ache to be
Evanescent as scent,
An accent on unspoken
But shivering bristles.
Dr. Mike
[Disposable Poem May 22, 2010]
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