Stifled by the limitations of language.
Blocked from trying too hard.
My pen labors to capture an image,
gropes for words that brush against
my fingertips … then scatter.
From my paintbrush broad strokes search for definition.
I fumble to paint you the canvas of a memory,
But the portrait remains obscure.
That perfect blend of light, color, and texture escapes me.
A dismal artist, I fail to capture the essence.
Monet’s bankrupt pupil.

So I’m left sharing recollections of
a young lover futilely dreaming of our mutual senility,
already worn, but wizened by the experiences
which ravaged his youth.
A man burdened by his fate, but with
the playfulness of a child surrounded
by trains and soldiers.
A man who observed life and
saw only the realities there,
but whose greatest pleasure was my laughter,
prompted by his own antics.
A man who confused people with his complexity,
but in whom I saw a simplicity … very basic desires.

I admired his wisdom,
encouraged his playfulness,
shared his realities,
laughed with abandon,
and loved him completely.

Now I share his insights,

play with his toys,
face my own realities,
and hah, hah, hah …
continue to laugh.
I feel his laughter too.