In the winter of your life,
wrinkles criss-cross , the skin
loose, like haberdasher’s
garments hanging.
Altered by swift currents and
Cross-currents, fetish with
The free, uninterrupted flow
Of writing, you are in for
a deliberate pause.
You brood of those
Summer days, how
best summer could have
been spent, summer showers
have delighted you, the sacred
pots in your garden,
little realize that dark,
Dull, Emissary , one day
will knock at your door,
Collage with your
aging
and desire for
unaging process.
No comments:
Post a Comment