Monday, January 28, 2013

Short, Whiny Poetry

 
Thoughts at the End of Most Days

A whole day
up in smoke
but I didn’t
burn it, especially
not at both ends
so why am I smelling
the acrid remains
of the day?

Age's Garden, Youth's Window

Looking out on
my darkened garden
through a glass
lit from within,
shows a slender,
unmarred, graceful  
shade plant self:
a pale caladium
hidden from the withering
heat of time.



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