Poetry, Writing

The Roots of Weeds

by David Budbill

we are
bones and ash,
the roots of weeds
poking through
our skulls.

simple clothes,
empty mind,
full stomach,
alive, aware,
right here,
right now.

Drunk on music,
who needs wine?

Come on,
let’s go dancing
while we’ve
still got feet.

David Budbill crafted life like art, and made art with the rough stuff of life. He was a poet, playwright, and friend. I prefer not think of the lovely souls as being mortal but indeed they are.  David was a gift to this world.

He is gone to bones and ash, so we must write.

(And of course, dance.)

David Budbill, June 13, 1940-September 25, 2016


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