Years ago, my words took flight,
An amateur poet lost to the night.
With ambition high, yet rhythm askew,
I sang Lark, but the notes were few.
Old narratives sojourned amongst the trees,
A chromatic fire stoked by an elevated breeze.
An epicure sought the finest bread,
A sourdough substance old grains fed—
For afternoon tea near the park, a fleeting hour,
An artist’s hand-shaped sugar into a flower.
Like plucking the feathers from a Lark,
A silent witness to rhymes restless mark.
Like pooches at the pound, wall to wall,
Yet each adoption—an adventure for all.
An abandoned dog with eyes so wide,
Found love anew, yet, reader, do you chide—
An alias account, an anonymous page,
An unbelieving apology, tempered with age?
Remembrance Day—let words make peace,
Let anti-profanity grant them release.
An annuitant waits, with a mind now still,
For the stories of youth, no journal can fill.
Accordion notes play Lark, to loud, no-flow,
A poem—a line—lost many years ago.
WoPoLi 
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