Poetry

Giving yourself,
a gift of trash, you were
waiting for the pain to return.
 
A shadow overtakes you
as if you were
walking on the dry lake bed.
 
An abandoned thought
becomes a philosopher.
How not to live again.
 
The birder meets a rainstorm,
on journey to unknown.
The poet and water become one.
 
Not easy to finish the
line. Something has remained
unsaid. The vultures descend.