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40 x 60

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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.

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AVAILABLE.

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