I lie about my age
Or I avoid disclosing
I don’t know why really
But it serves no purpose, and
Only makes me more disquiet.
This near-twilight I sit looking
Towards the back, and
Towards the pond
And I see layers of color
Texture
Dishevelement
Density
Persistence
Age
Which is where I seem
To be wanting to go.
What good does it do
To linger here in this étude
When maybe
Old, beautiful await?
I once wrote that
We were composting here.
Plenty of sky and room to breathe
My sending lines in gold.
