…you will own the biblical hoary head. Your
tree will know how oddly a branch may grow to
sapless, brittle treachery. Fear alone will
threaten to break it.
Most of those who loved you are dead. Their absence
shadows, haunts remembering. No one living
slows to listen really or hear your story.
If you should tell it.
Breath of the morning, beautiful new forgiveness,
not a thought to limit or change or end it–
noon afire with promises, now a rush to
flushingly spend it–
all will come to evening. You are not of
your time; you are your time. A shutter
opens, closes, light on a nervous mothwing