When I am old
I will fall and break my hip,
moving barefoot over
no longer familiar terrain
littered with shards of years
and remnants of unrequited instants,
cold congealed intentions
and unwashed possibilities.
My teeth grown long and loose:
I will bite down hard on futility
seeking to open its seamless hardness.
I will cry and rave
and pull off my clothing
to sit naked in June's puddles,
in my own failure to escape
wrinkled, sagging limitations
but I will pause and purr (still)
at the warmth of love
however fleeting and quiet:
the fragile yellow chick,
the snowpea shoot
in its rain-washed, dark earth.
YOU ARE READING
Sweeping Winds and Rainbow Beginnings
PoetryThese are a few of my poems. I would prefer to take my time and try to sort the better ones out from the rubbish so it might take me a while to collect. I hope you can stop by and enjoy a poem or several. In poetry (good or bad) we express something...
