Ah, the way the wind blows
Matters not to men in offices insulated
But ask the fisherman casting his net on the soul grating sea
Or the red cheeked child with ebullient eyes
To whom the parade of kites portrays a world of rainbow possibility.
Ah, the comma. Just a squidgy dot, waste of space
Matters not to the frenetic tweeter
But ask the teacher who commits her life
To a generation
Who’ll either plant trees or start fires,
Depending on whether they had enough time
To, for reflection, pause.
Ah, the pen marks on the wall
Scars on the beautiful flower pattern
To the Joneses.
For the mother, a reminder timeless of days innocent
Before Responsibility’s wings
Flew her young from the nest.
Hamish Kamoshi ©2015