Life

What is this puny stick that

has the audacity to spoil my view

of the green-blue water of Lake Louise

and the majestic rock face that

stands watch above?

Does this twig have aspirations of

achieving the grandeur of

the trees at my back?

As I write these thoughts

— smack —

squadrons of mosquitoes

harry my face and hands.

Beside me are small yellow flowers.

Something, somewhere smells sweet.

How is there a seagull

sitting on the rocks, at 5700 feet,

over 300 miles from the coast?

From this bench,

I see grasses and shrubs

that I don’t recognize,

courageously sprouting

from the rocks of the lake shore.

I look back up to that rock face.

At its base are more scraggly trees

like my hopeful sapling,

bravely clinging to the idea that

life has a strong future.

Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

Waiting

In a Houston airport departure lounge,

watching our grandsons as they fidget and bounce,

I see that a difference between youth and age

is that the young don’t yet know how to wait.

Waiting’s an art that comes only with time,

a skill that’s developed by standing in line

or sitting to watch for a thing to occur.

It grows toward perfection as people mature.

And this is one skill that will pay a reward;

for, if you are patient, while you’re being bored,

the amazing and useful may come into mind.

In veteran poets, this skill’s well refined.

Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.