In solitude, I think
And write
And dream
Of days painted in blues
and reds and greens
Of years that speed-by
faster than a rondo
or slow to a crawl-like lento.

In solitude
I hear what I may not
want to hear,
Not that I am not ready for it.

And weep and cry and sigh
For places
And places long gone.

My heart aches to be
Five again.
Or even twenty.

And yet in many ways
untried, untested
Until now.