date of composition- sometime in 2004
I am watching the grass grow, wondering
that seasons so quickly turn round and round
and round again, leaving no seeming
eternal mark. Was it not just yesterday
that patch of green was white and iced?
That I can barely remember the taste
of a chill wind on my tongue, or my bones
huddling under my skin, scraping from
each other what warmth they might,
seems a kind amnesia.
It is the same with a mirror, two hundred
and more seasons have I circled the sun,
but cannot recall myself appearing
other than as revealed, now. Only photos
laid in their time, one end to another,
speak of one silver hair becoming a hundred,
one dimple of skin becoming a ravine.
I did never dream that love would dare come
so tardily on this traveler’s road. Fleeces
of gold are quests best left to the energies
of youth, and their sweet ignorance.