Her possessions robbed The small blue boat bobbed In the bouncing sea. Tethered to the dock Secured by a lock. When the wild winds blow No place can she go. While rising water Climbs o’er her gunwale Apt to fill her hull. Her jostling about Has left not a doubt Soon to the bottom She’s going to sit Having no spirit. Nothing to live for Won’t fight anymore. So sad, slowly she Sinks to her demise. There’ll be no goodbyes.
The wind is a bus Going here then there Carries limitless Things of many shapes. Plastic shopping bags Soon to be snagged By the naked trees. Fallen autumn leaves Doing somersaults Down the barren path. Dandelion seeds Like little balloons Up to touch the sky. And what of those clouds That bring needed rain Or hide the bright sun. But the greatest joys That the bus does bring Are those we can’t see: The scent of fresh baked Apple pie cooling On the window sill, The soft wavering Coming from the field Of gold colored hay. But greatest of all After summer’s rain The slow flowing scent Of sweet lavender. It is my desire The bus to idle And stay awhile.