Alfred Booth
Searching for that one thought
Mind-wandering into shady park benches, the dry red clay path, another chapter finished, no passers-by talking loudly at their phones or with rambunctious dogs, the clouds are absent now but last night such a lovely faded pink on the horizon, the park custodians have let the barley overgrow so no sunbathers flatten its spires of life delicately swaying while blackbirds sing their frilly variations, and the ladybugs, and the bees and butterflies in clover, and the cat left alone at home is certainly sunning on the windowsill and thinking, “It’s lunchtime, why isn’t he home yet?”
maybe life
is an ongoing experiment
pinpointed
only by the ebb and flow
of three hundred seasons
About the Author
A retired professional musician who dances on ivory and ebony, Alfred Booth is convinced there is poetry in life, you just have to know where to look. To extend the calm music brings to his dailyness, of all activities, poetry alone can be honed in the shower.