Guaraldi dances on the keys
as though every tree were an evergreen.
A moppy sheen covers the pond and
the herald spouts off warm greetings
to paint the scene like Kincade.
One prefers to analyze the sky beneath
foggy glasses and with
Another may lick lips
and cold poles
to prove the scientists wrong.
I am a scientist, as I glance down at my woolen glove
collecting tiny particles of cloud dust.
so unlike the mounds
a razors edge
I wish to contain
the many drops of silver rain
just beyond the porch.
The pastel colors muted yellow in the light
beaming in my memory
and heaping on to previous places
to secret grottos
Your hair is matted down
by the smattering
of future plants and pools.
Too long, now, in the grotto,
I fear the rain has passed us by.
The Best Days of Your Life
as the vine stretches to sunlight.
Fair follicles mark the maturation of a man.
scratched by the thumb
and index finger
in the late evening
huddled over the typewriter
and now the pocket screen.
The world around him grows
in less familiar ways
as he mourns the loss of old stages,
his precious plays.
He may plead for a new set of genes that fit
while the old ones go to waste.
How much of him is scattered among the clouds?
How spacious am I?
Things We Pretend to Own
Tame the lion of grandeur
before the cart tumbles over and spills
the day’s wages
over pebbled pieces.
The sediment sings sweetly
as pennies prance along the surface.
in spite of a painful landing
and the harsh reality of cobblestone.
Justin Meyer is a musician, writer, and teacher. He is a graduate of Friends University with a B.A. in Music and Christian Spiritual Formation. Justin teaches piano lessons through Air House Academy in Wichita and enjoys writing songs in his spare time.