Tag Archives: aging





We are not spirits only
when gravity works
flesh into dirt, pulls

bones into the womb
of all things as roots cling
and search for water.

Like drought-dead oaks
with loosened bark, clumps
of mistletoe hanging black

on the other side of Christmas,
Apollo’s hot breath
on our burnt lips kissed

with summer’s revenge.
It is not the dark rain
that dissipates strength,

weakens wooden handles:
the hands-on tools
for arms and legs

as hoe and shovel twist
and bow, decompose
beneath unrelenting heat.

We are not spirits yet
to defy mortal forces:
the bodies politique

that wear us down to find
our own ascension within
delirium under the sun.

We will walk with gods
soon enough and envy
this state of gravity.






No ceremony, no celebration
when we arrive, when we allow
the shroud of time to embrace

all fears and then dispel them.
We hang on the edge, hold
each breath until the next

turn of the sun. How could we
have known such peace exists
when we were chasing rabbits

for the sport of it, wasting time?
Ask the old dog in the shade
if he is satisfied with his magnificent

dreams, with his clever editing
now that he knows he’ll never return.
Who would we be without them?



Growing into ourselves
like the shadows of trees
leafless at dusk,

we become exaggerated
and unique with burls
for eyes and limbs

to reach beyond
our genetic root zones
as abstract art—

flat silhouettes
on a short green canvas
fading into seed

while the young oaks
all look the same
without character.



‘Aging the American Way’