I’m sorry, Mr. Tolkien.

Sorry, Mr. Caro.

But I’m just too damn old.

I don’t even buy green bananas

or not yet ripe Bartlets any more.

I haven’t the time to slog through so many

“…words, words, words!”

Verbosity, I swear, will be the death of me.

For Christ sake, learn the art of summary!

The older I become,

the more of Her wonders Earth reveals to me.

But I’m running out of time to pause to see.

One red leaf falling is all I need.

One crystalline snow flake…

One note of early-arrival-robin-song…

One moment of baking sunshine on my nose…

are enough to make a year.

I suppose that’s why poetry is plenty for me.

A couplet of iambic or a haiku suffices..

Limerick rather than symphony.

Sing just Verse I of any hymn,

any song.

Damn!

This poem is already too long

(Death erases the need

for all punctuation but the

period)

.