Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Age As A Word

When I feel old, I think of words —
those which have been around
so long that their original meaning
is lost in layers of myth, that creak
dusty from the tips of arcane books.
I think of Neanderthal man, a knock
on the mind’s door and that question —
do you remember me — as though
I’m being asked to remember
the name of an old friend now dead
twenty or more years,  when all
I can think of is an autumn day,
 light rain, leaves rummaging along
the ground with earthworms, and
that odor of rubbed grass — that
delicious odor of grass — that’s
what I remember, not what I called
an old friend.  My hair is gray,
half gone, my hands shake, but why —
I have forgotten to remember.

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