In the almost darkness of sunset
the oncoming fall
and the fields have been mowed
the trees, still mostly green
the only sounds in the distance—
a train whistle and chirping crickets
the birds I thought had left for the summer
were hiding in the thick branches of an evergreen tree
as tall as a giant from a children’s story
in the almost darkness of sunset
the silhouette of trees in the distance
takes the shape of a young boy lying in the grass
staring up at the sky
and as the sun dips farther under the covers
the silhouette child rolls to his side
falling asleep with the sun,
mother earth as his pillow
The perfect anything
in order to write perfectly
one would have to be perfect
and I am not perfect
I only think I am
but life is a two-way mirror
and the mirror is cracked
and there are two faces
and one of those faces is wrinkled
and wrinkles are an imperfection
so it stands to reason
there is no such thing
as the perfect word
or the perfect poem
or the perfect life
Atop this world
you sit at the very top of a tree
one summer morning,
school a million miles away
and the world sits before you
ready for your tiny fingers
to reach out and feel its warmth
this thing they call adulthood
is only a thought blowing in the wind
it will never happen to you
all you will ever need to thrive is right here
in the thinning branches of a tree
all of your experiences, your knowledge
coursing through the brittle veins of its leaves,
nature’s own biology book
and although you can see the world around you,
almost for miles on this clear, sun-filled day
your mind lies oblivious to much of it
but don’t let them convince you
this is a bad thing
© Ken Tomaro
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| Ken Tomaro
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Ken Tomaro is a writer living in Cleveland, Ohio, whose work reflects everyday life with depression. His poetry has appeared in several online and print journals, exploring the common themes we all experience in life. Sometimes blunt, often dark, but always grounded in reality.
