There are ramparts
To every man, forged with time
Impenetrable, the front of his fortress.
Then there are happy places
Chiseled in memory, the crossroads with the
Knee-high roses and the head-high
Fields of gold; Barley, Maize even Sunflowers.
Then there are the mushy walls
Around my drifting heart, laid in Kleenex
Where the tide flows and ebbs
– even soaking – depositing
The many salts of yesteryear
In all their timelessness
