whoever would wander Wishing the blues away in the wan light of a winter evening won't hasten spring, yet we do as we have done, thus far, in a world of loss where snowflakes swirl around the streetlamps. Tramping on, we wonder about the distance demanded, ponder again the distance gone. seasonally A summer comes, goes, that's how it is. Days follow days: slivers of blue sky quiver in the branches, then the trees thin out, and clouds pile on clouds. So the story goes, and so we go, following, just so, into a fall. home if so, if only This is how it is now: a cup of warm tea after a late supper. Rattle of windows. Outside the March wind flings a final few snowflakes across the landscape. This is spring now, a new season, though the songs on the radio are old songs that speak of old things. Old ourselves, if we begin again we begin not with new hope, but with hope to hope again. home what now is It is April once more and so we listen to the familiar music of the rain. We have come this far, merely persisted, and wondered all the while if it mattered to the world. This far, thus far, in the world. So we say: it is raining, and there is a haze of first leaf. We call it spring. a mere word in a mere world? home travelers The clock in this old cafe stopped years ago, but that's okay -- things stop, as we have stopped for coffee on our way to parts unknown (always, it seems, on our way to parts unknown). And so we sit; steam rises from our cups and we speak of things that have stopped, of people who are gone... Outside, rain is falling on a dusty road. home © Robert L. Kusiolek

... a world half gone in dissolution, fluid and almost formless in the rain of small occurrences. --William Bronk   whoever would wander seasonally if so, if only what now is travelers