You are the age that I was
when we met.
I have become an artifact:
vestigial, an older
version of a thing no longer
necessary, a tool of stone tied
with fraying string in a world
moving on toward bronze.

An archaeologist digs
up my bones and scratches his head.
He cannot fathom what they
were for except in relation
to you.

A turbid river with little current,
a roughened stone half-submerged
and softening in the stream.
There is a contradicting
endlessness to things,
even as everything ebbs
toward nonexistence.
The staid trunk of the oak tree
sits solid on the hillside and
its rings measure the infinite.

Memories that linger are both
yesterday and forever ago.
A turbid river with little current,
a stone sinking in the mud and eroding.
The shadows shift slightly
to the left
forever.

The end of long a long trip,
the endless handshake of time,
candlewax pooling in a tin as
the flame burns out.

Finding the flow
The balance
The art
Of fulfillment
And letting go
Knowing when to say yes
When to say no
Self care at its best
Proof that I’ve grown.

Maybe some years gone by
raising the pyramid golden high.
The inbuilt deep sea of science and arts
in the making run in timeless time.
So why ponder spilling the beans
in one fine moment down the open sky?

I miss you

These endings
that once
were beginnings

time having
run through us
and out

My sisters
my brother
and you

Now
is a time
with missing pieces

of itself
known by
bright wet outlines