Hello, me again.
We never said a goodbye.
But you are not there.



It’s a good day to write a poem,
since I can still ole, ole, ole.
I’ve got coffee and the sun and
moments to pray.
Oh, yes, it is a good day to write a poem.
There are Mexican petunias in my mind and my fingertips are at the ballet.
I am making music with the clicks and clacks.
It sounds like samba meets Broadway.
Yes, it is a good day to write a poem.


The feathers are coming off one by one.
My satin pillow crimson feathers are flying off like a molting American Goldfinch.
They are coming back burlier, with a dirtier brown tinge as I am ready to
disappear into the colder nights and
confuse people looking for my signature flame red.
I am true to form though and ready to take flight for another year around the axis.