Into this seventh of December

Cold wet grey clouded Saturday

Thoughts have chased some scenes

Of the play of life.

Incendiary to friend

Muse and spouse at times.

How often have we in families

Questioned the role play of


And then during the good life

Pushed the upsetting stumbles

Vehemently aside

While life had decided to push

Us around

Like flotsam on the sea of

Never-ending sailing

Original family ties lost

Yet experiencing new extended


One never had thought existed.

Into this seventh day December

When the poet counts his


Protected by an aura of well-


He’ll care for an elderly friend

And extend his own protective

Umbrella to him

On this cold wet grey and

Clouded Saturday.

The glow of love

His Muse bestowed on him.




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