Will, Son!

Radiant is thou, 

wafting through the forest;

I remember the time

we pranced around fellow tourists.


I judge when I live,

so I think while I breathe.

I dislike a taste for negativity,

& question my pity for the green—


Where are the echoes?

Must I always pick up 

on the universal radio?

Over & out, the channel of thought,

I guess I’ll release

that which I cannot.


’Tis no big deal,

a rod of lightning stole my face,

woke with the sun on my back,

no more doubt to trace.


I am certain in hope & reality,

I enjoy, very much, the skinny 

elephants of Dalí.

If big were the picture, 

where would I be?

Lost in a maze —

or lounging in Chekhov’s cherry tree?