AT THE RIM
In ninety years of residence on this planet, I have accumulated a lot of inner debris. Most of it is trash, but I have to believe that some of it is worth exposing to public view. These poems are about love, loss, and gratitude, along with some outrage at having been propelled into a century I don't understand at all.
I am particularly grateful to those who helped me along the way to becoming a poet: Joyce Davis, Richard Schramm, Valerie Martínez, Stellasue Lee. I am also grateful to my three children, who have managed to become good people in spite of me. And finally, this book is my farewell to everyone I lost along the way.
I dedicate these poems to my wife, Mary Sue Doyle Johnston, who gave me my first incentive to enter the world of poetry.
Las Vegas, New Mexico
AT THE RIM
When you were here the summer fruit was ripe
And love could stay without a robe or tent.
The morning sun fell softly on our sleep,
A yellow wash for pleasures still undreamt.
But then you passed all boundaries of light
Into a darkness that you call your own.
The autumn leaves have faded while I wait
And winds are blowing cold against the sun.