Deep in harmony hill’s shadow,
the row of cypresses wave
their pointy dripping heads.
A lone cardinal perches inside one.

It’s a 40 degree chiller of
charcoals, pale greens,
with the tat-a-tat of rain
and a wind rattling the bones
of my office-home.

I am a new age man,
plinking keys like Liberace
between sips of jasmine tea.
I signal a world where wealth
is squiggles on a screen.

Freedom.
When I was a boy,
it was a Sunday supplement poster
that I pinned to my bedroom wall.
That’s the thing about living,
the ties bind, then tear and fray.

When mom went in the hospital,
I carried a book of Bukowski like a bible
right up to the night she died.

Today,
I won’t consider the never ending war,
the latest school shooting,
my strange niche.

I cannot think in terms of time.
I am here now,
or at least I was.

In my own way, I have tried to be free.

01/24/2013

Author's Note: post-christmas rainy day sub-particle man blues (and greens)

Posted on 01/25/2013
Copyright © 2026 David Hill