The Circle

Like the ice off the earth
In spring,
Like a lie in the presence
Of truth,
Like dry ink off an old
Manuscript
I can feel melting off me
My face,
/
And my heart I can sense
Reabsorb,
Every wrinkle and tear,
Every smile,
With whose help it would
Speak to the world,
And who’d pass to it
The world’s reply
/
As I watch my hands wither
Like leaves,
That I’d gather in bouquets
Each fall,
I recall what a joy it once was
To hold
Rock and snow, and the sunset glow
Over the ocean
/
As if sculpted from
Alien ash,
My legs, too, crumble
With the wall of time,
And the winter wind
Carries away
All that’s always been his –
Never mine

4 thoughts on “The Circle

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