I am these annuals drying in the window box
And the leaves blushing on wall climbing vines
Or yellow-paled in the mirrored trees,
For I too tire, well-seasoned in my own falling.
my past overflows its levee
and swirls into my present.
my future washes away like a beach
in a vicious Nor'easter.
The old man saw first that the nearest boat was for sale, even through the confines of his camera’s viewfinder, even through the fog, even through the sunless grey of early dawn. And, though he was of insufficient funds, and of strength (and of remaining time), he struggled to make out the contact number.
Joni sings Seasons on Pandora while I check old, ever older skin with impassive eyes. (“I’ve always been eighteen inside,” said my mother on her 90th.) Two new sailing wounds: left arm, right ankle, seen but not felt. Worn skin: rough, discolored, scabbed and scarred. Still I do not mourn the passing of my youth!