My work here is done,
but you could never speak of it first.
And as the last flower petal drops,
few notice the sea kiss the crimson sky.
But there are some of us
who hear the shrill of the cicadas.
And the owls repeating sweet nothings
to the blushing moon.
Live well and leave well, I say.
At the end of the day,
silent meditation and words of love
feed my soul, and you?
A Wandering Poet 