Picking Up Roots

Here

a whisper of salt
rides the coattails
of the wind
up
from the pristine blue;

it is the scent of memories,
too many to count
or relive in this moment,

so I sit
on a hard bench
in the welcome warmth
of the sun's afternoon glow,
staring out at the water,
gazing back through time,
wondering where it has gone,
happy I'm here now

Who

I stared hard
into the mirror
looking beneath
the salt and pepper,
past the sharp white hairs,
through the faded blue,
beneath the lines
of the laugh-aged face;

I stared hard
and I asked,
"who are you"

I'm still waiting
to live out
the answer

Weight

what is asked of us,
no more than we can take -
       will we take up its weight