Old Sailor
he sags,
each wrinkle a route on the map of memory,
every age spot a star that devoured a wish.
a few silver tufts
are the only limbs he has left
to dance with storms.
his palm cups a cane
fallen from a tree he climbed as a boy.
his ocean-blue wool
reminds him of a long-ago girl
who said the tide would lead
as it retreated like the hem of her dress.
his skeleton, he thinks of a ship
cannoned with muscle, ligaments the rigging
which suffers such tatters, his spine
a crooked even barnacled mast.
his eyes--such foggy compasses now--wander.
his legs heavy anchors
bereft of allegiance to current and wind.
and yet still, when it rains, such drops!
how they sojourn
across the countryside of his cheeks.
and as all must do, they soon diminish,
meek of glow, so it must be,
led by moonlight
as night sinks into water.
===================
7/8/24
War is here. I sent an op-ed to a few newspapers. Aside from that, poetry.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment