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New Poem for my stepgrandson

                                                            Luca At Two

                                                            Golden haired,

                                                            Serene or squalling,

                                                            Monarch of all

                                                            He surveys.

                                                            It was touch

                                                            And go at first –

                                                            A teary transfer

                                                            From grandparent

                                                            To grandparent –

                                                            Until he spotted

                                                            The garbage truck.

                                                            “Garbage truck,”

                                                            He said sagely

                                                            And soberly,

                                                            Pointing emphatically.

                                                            Sensing common ground,

                                                            We eagerly concurred,

                                                            “Garbage truck,

                                                            Of course,

                                                            It’s Monday!”

                                                            The ice had

                                                            Been broken,

                                                            Our day together

                                                            Could begin.

                                                            To be able

                                                            To make him

                                                            Smile, or even

                                                            Better, laugh,

                                                            Was a privilege that,

                                                            Once earned,

                                                            Made the day

                                                            Evanescent

                                                            Yet Essential.

SYMPHONY / a new poem by Tom Evans

Lie down and hear the music.

Brahms.

Hear the melody as it moves,

The blend of the instruments,

The cadence of the violins.

Imagine the shadowy dancers

Waltzing on the polished floor,

Revolving, pausing,

Beginning again.

Feel the breeze

Through open windows

As it ruffles clothes and curtains.

See the tent of sky above,

The stars in the dark night,

As the music envelops you.

Brahms.

Alms for the weary soul.