Like a tottering toddler, chortling and playing

In the quagmire of mud, dirt and muck,

I dabble in broken syllables, dusty and slain,

Dark brown, the color of mud, green,

The moss of moments that scalded and bled

Hiccups of rapture, and poetry.

I have walked these pathways before,

A dim-witted lover, crushed and reborn.

I pick up the half-torn pages of love-lit hues

Which once had a semblance with melody,

Echoing symphonies.

The tinkle bell of words, spread out,

A luscious, green pasture.

I had meandered away, hanging for a while

In its volatile branches.

Today, these words, roots and stems coil around me.

Am I late in my homecoming?

Had I slithered away in lure of

More luminescent traffic,

More somber, structured, polished tunes?

Today, in this dimly lit nook, as I taste

The dying embers of these evanescent songs,

My shores explode, jittery, disarrayed,

Tumbling up and down

With the child’s broken words.