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Is there something between the lines?
An answer, formula, or, the source of our regrets,
that does not wish to be discovered?
Sure, going there could have its rewards,
but here in the moment, in this twilight,
wrapped in wrinkles and creases, why should we?
Better to bask in the soft glow of evening's wine.
Regrets cast shadows over our brittle skins
and fill the pages we read. Why look for more?
Besides, we like it here in our bright green valley,
next to shimmering water, beneath the evening's music,
in the beauty of this day's passing, of it's going,
barely sustaining itself, in orange and purple hues.
Poetry on the run 