It´s so much fun playing around with words (a poem)

Sometimes I dream of warm Summer nights spent
outdoors among shrubberies sparse and thin, tall
trees bare of fruit feeding the fire at our feet with a
dried-out windfall of dead bark and bough and leaf
and twig.

Yet the fire cracks still at our feet in this dream and
its din is like the gentle snoring of a bearded wise
giant sleeplessly knitting throughout Creation with
needles silver though complexion like dusty
parchment.

Up I step to yell at the old man,
“Dontcha yield old man Father Time let it rip,”
then watch him wake to swing his scythe sideways
from East to West, horizon to proximity,
shoreline to sky, and I see all the weekends from a
childhood idyllic merged over those later straycat
blackhole years inevitably misspent in College:

Everything boiled down to a past only half-forgotten
but mostly rendered in rags apocryphal.

Then just before the sand ebbs away washed from
eyes shut tight I find myself a lone castaway on the
left banks of night´s beach under this Southern Cross
of ours, seeing you coast by to righter shores safely tucked
beneath Winter´s gray coat just like sails set high bridging
this great divide-- and us half a continent asunder.