A poem about being old, for Ten
I comply, flexibly, like a willowHe sweeps me over with gentle hands
As if I am water, soft waves pushed
I am his doll, for him to play with
I trust him beyond the furthest point
I move closer to the other side of the world
I feel him, I hear him, I smell him, I savor him
As a new bud savors the sun, this vintage rose does still bloom
Comments (10)
From what I've seen of your blogs, you seem to spend quite a lot of your time being swept over with gentle hands. Good for you.