After some time
the years grow softer.
They sift down through my pleated skin
and sink to bone, accumulating there
as pollen collects in spring on a still pond.
So many hours given up to dreaming!
All those bright days gone, like stars
reflected in black water, fading.
I could have built a long stone fence
that climbed the hill out back and
ran around the summer orchard.
I could have made a deep porch swing
and set children there for laughter.
I could have formed a life of use,
at least possessing grace, instead of sitting
in the wind and rain, a gray rock thrown up
in a farmer’s broken field, watching
lichen crawl across my face,
waiting for something interesting to happen -
a change in weather, maybe,
or a new phase of the moon,
perhaps the falling of some final dark,
tender as snow.
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