When Thirty Was Old

I’ve had thoughts about life
and its marriage to seasons.
How a boy is consummated
in the warm embrace of young lovers
winters rebellion
and earthed
in summer suns
unwavering fury.
How he grows and blossoms
like the leaves on a tree
and the flowers in a garden
come spring time.
And when autumn dumps all
its colors unto concrete sidewalks
in that childhood of
first steps…
It seems like memories
too vast to remember
how it all unfolds…
in the time
when thirty was old.

I’ve had thoughts about life
in those moments before eyes
knew what they were perceiving.
How freedom at its best and most simple
was about nothing more
than rows of swing sets
for which to fly
and open fields of green grass
for which to run seemingly
into the never-ending.
How the smells of charcoal burning
use to blend itself oh so perfectly
to that of the sounds of laughter
and grooves.
Family and friends…
pictures never fleeting.

I’ve questioned the way of love
the gift and its givers.
Where from fathers, mothers or
others.
How it is born from
speech, a gaze
first touch of soft skin.
Inspiration drawn from outside
to settle deep within.
It always takes two and then
that multiplies...
Oh, how she was enchanting
at first look into her
little crying eyes.
Yes…true love
An undertaking of the foolishly bold.

I’ve been told by the wisest I’ve known
that life is racing
and we run until we no longer can do it
anymore.
For those that are lucky
hairs that have gone and grayed
bones that are tired and frail
will let the soul know that it’s time
to go home.
But let one last slow ride
down that river remembrance
take me back to those chapters
in a story meant to be told...
of the days
when thirty was old.