Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Perhaps When I am Old

I will not cling but gather
with tired, withered arms
his fears collapsed in blooms of red
memories petals swept from stone

In single file, ghosts will pass
absorb into the softest moss
through eyes grown dimmer
I might see he -

who held then broke, such fracture
found in low sweet laugh, in tangled
thoughts, an ivy English scrambling
broken fences, my sad garden.

I may inherit -
heap of gravestones, burst
of poppies, my fingers crush
absorb the must, spill kept seeds

succumb such tulip
to stroke such length of tender stalk!
perhaps when we are old my love, perhaps.

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