Bones lose their élan as years
burrow into the marrow;
Age has a canny way of nudging the missive.
The last sigh may not smell of rose.
Faces that were known in the vicinity
Of your own orbit now seem jaded.
Their paths hardly crossed yours,
tempers frayed by the travails of the journey.
Their eyes meet yours, yet seem so far
that memories do not wet the shore.
As if a tsunami of time has left a gaping void.
Have their faces shriveled into a ghostly outline?
A “hello” sounds emptier than the
beating of the drum; stands out as an odd decibel
unblessed by a well-woven song.
Lingo losing its sap, a drifting wood.
Is it now a wait only for the last moment,
a weather-hewn canoe eyeing the mariner?