© 2016 by Christopher Clymer Kurtz
Tea in a canteen, not much else, black, no cream
Music up, spin the tunes, come alive, pull the groove.
Simple things, simple pleasures, too complex to measure, and nothing to ruffle your feathers.
Run so fast; when you fall you fly, crash down like a lullaby,
Towering pine trees, chuckle of cool streams, harmonies.
No catch to this catch, feelings floating through the breeze.
And morning comes, you fly away
You’re what I live for ‘til the end of every day.