It has been said
“I want us to grow old together”
yet who imagines
that lively face punished by time’s desert
those strong brown legs bowed over uncertain feet
Once I imagined us children together
chasing tadpoles in the summer creek
fingers blackberry stained
clothes red with mud
It is not youth I am after
there is something like a dream
in these days where each gets designed upon waking
canvas of hours
paints made from what is between us
nearly a hundred fifty years
gathering essences of plant and rock
observing insect wings
finding direction in the trajectory of falling snow
palette of petals of late and early daylight
We are as the air passing through aspens
having been in storied places
no longer who or what
we are now feathers
we are now wafting campfire tales
with purpose
growing old together, how very weird.
No comments:
Post a Comment