I wish
I could write
happy things,
stuff about
daisies,
moonlight,
a first kiss,
or a mid-life lover,
the greeting card stanzas
that warm us
like a puppy
or a big furry cat
laying in our lap.

I want to
shout that
Emerson thing,
sound that
Thoreau vibe,
proclaim a little
Whitman,
and allude to
that Ginsberg guy,
by envisioning
a transcendental poet
in the produce aisle
of a grubby grocery store.

But then my nature
merges with
that which surrounds,
transforming
the glint of sun
the drift of clouds,
and the toss of grass
by a cool night breeze
into a dark shield
of melody,
color,
smell,
and touch,
making me exhale
any normalcy
that ever was.