Saturday, December 14, 2013


Young, we’re all different
people.  With age, the
character marks begin
to appear.  Lines lead
into experience, assume
the colour of October
leaves, the exhilaration
of cold air, the skin of a
year or more in an
occupation, the texture
pay cheques have,
and children and
places of residence.

With age, the roadmaps
we’ve discarded are
rocks and grass, slopes
slanted down, a glance
of perhaps and streets
intertwined, as lives are,
the head turning without
conscious effort to
sunset, darkening and
diminishing, the view
over the lip of a filling cup.    

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