Like brush stroke of
Fine artist
Wave left on the shore
Her print,
Ignoring its state
Ephemeral,
Or no one ever see
Her work.
Is it not
True artist spirit?

©Byung A. Fallgren

Once I drove along side the river
On my left, with curiosity of a lass.
Loved what you showed me:
Twinkling river-stars,
Smooth jade sashes with
Tagging love boats,

Which soothes eyes as the
Imagination does on mind
Till they slipped away without
the peripheral view. Then
You swung ’round to reverse the course,
Heading back in the direction of where I started!
As if to admonish me truth yet to be perceived.

With the river to my right, I doubted
Your motive of entertaining my right arm.
You let the breeze kiss the trees,
Played with the river hide and seek,
And questioned her origin.

She pulled stealthily away from us,
Like pouting lover, scorning at our vagary.
Chuckle you did of flamboyant playboy,
Finally showing me the way to my destination.
And I was delighted by your ingenuity.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Gem of the days has arrived!
Heartache has ended.
Her firstborn son has flown home
To the beautiful land to join his family
From the island oversea where
She was born and grew on a coffee farm.

Grateful, she praises God.
‘Land of brave’ seems so right.
Big apple and strangers
Appear sweet and kind.

Her mind overflows with
Dreams and plans,
To achieve ‘Land of oppottunity’
Alive.
In their reunion I rejoice.

©Byung A. Fallgren

‘Watch for him, could you?’
‘For how long, Son?’
‘Three weeks or so.’
Grandpa turns to me for my approval.
I feel my face lit as if by a campfire of night.
‘Weather should be travel-friendly.’

I help Little Son get dressed and feed him
Grandpa waves to Little Son as he gets on the school bus.
I clean the house and do the laundry, fighting heel pain.
Grandpa helps me with shopping, despite the joint pain then
At the bus stop he waits for Little Son coming home.
On the weekend, Grandpa needs to take care of Monsters at home.
Grandpa, Little Son, Big Son, and me take a road trip.
I frown at the storm cloud.

Against the windshield splash big drops,
Then it down pours.
On the road pile up softball hails.
Celestial winter game in August!
Vehicles are coward turtles, creeping over to
The shoulders, waiting for it stop, except
Big Son braves to crawl through the hailstorm.

‘Wait as others do, Son,’ I squeak.
His eyes fixed on the road, Big Son is a quiet soldier.
After infinite-hour, the hail stops.
From afar the turtles begin to follow then zoom by.
Big Son keeps it within speed limit.

The Monsters at home are taken care of.
Little Wife has returned from her trip. Duty-free,
We, old couple bid the children goodbye until next time:
‘If life plays like the weather, to give is only love.’

© Byung A. Fallgren