Fresh,
a slip of tongue
an adolescent impulse.
Later he will learn not
to say what he means,
when he dims to mellow.

Tough,
he'll learn to be
a remnant of himself.
He'll carve days of dollars
they'll rise and fall,
sink or swim.

Later,
he will gaze
at the slip curl of
a summer moon
thinking of lead
army men, and G.I. Joe.

June,
such a lovely month
for a man to be born,
again, and again,
dying in-between
each blink of sun.

Stranger,
what kind are you
Gray or blue?
I'd really like to know
if you ever won
at Stratego.

Before,
we begin our dance
of words and impressions,
here beside the middle-age
of life, still taking sides
and building walls.

Tomorrow,
you may find me
beside a hemlock
picking small cones
for a Marigold potpourri
no less, or more a man.

Until,
that day arrives
we guard ourselves
enough to be at ease
to give each other
what we plan.

Free,
Is a large word
it comes in moments
when the soul is loud,
then quietly slips away
hanging just beyond
our reach.

Me,
I chose the ones
in the prone position
blue, they fought at rest
hidden in the black grass
bullets whizzing by.

ajs