I have a chance to be respectable...
rather than a wild old man
with fire in his eyes
who listens to the souls of trees
and of the stones.
I knew a woman once
in the shape of a young pliant tree.
She tossed her hair and laughed
if I spoke of anything other then the wind.
What would she say
if she saw me sitting by the fire
working on a budget?
She would shake her leaves
until black birds
rustled out of her and cawed!
Yet, one must think of security
in old age: perhaps a good pension,
insurance to pay the doctors,
the nursing home and the mortician
their dues.
Or, if one had enough love,
one could carve a terraced paradise
inch by inch out of a stone wall
and plant there fabulous laughing flowers
amidst a riot of grape vines
and hot, black, swelling figs.
And if a pilgrim climbed up there
amidst the mists of the mountains
and over slick river stones
by the caterwaul of waterfalls,
one could give that pilgrim a drink of new wine
and toast together young women
and beautiful trees
by the light of fire on a stone hearth,
and in wild, old eyes.