40 x 60
we found three grey hairs,
it must be the sky,
the murky white clouds,
that hang 30 to 40 degrees above.
i left a snowstorm,
a novel blanket of irreverent frosting,
slowly melting into a sad gruel.
i went home to the sea, to the sun,
to the wet wind in my lungs.
i wonder if i see a wrinkle.
in my face now,
maybe a fold in the future,
a threaded needle to my new, old life.
i will eat ham because it is delicious,
i will drink wine because i am alive,
ink-stained lips, words and paint light on my toes.
one hundred years of dogs.
a life of meaning, warm sun.