Saturday, November 27, 2010

Would Be Twenty-Five

Moving toward mid-life, whenever that

May be, we charge mountains. Big things

Make up that world. Mist comes and goes,

Monstrous hills turn windmills. We sit

Down; through the long day we chased the light

That sinks, then slides up our shadows silvery,

More modest now, the subtle slowly

Makes friends with a murmur in the heart.