I danced each night with wind

like wind should

it smoothed and soothed

the ragged jaw of me.

Youth blackened eye

cut deep

my youthful dreams,

green apples waiting.

Dead tree crumpled,

diluted, and reduced

to a lonely charred stump

waiting on an old foot.

 Harvest is poor this year

Acres of salted tears,

eye bags and wrinkles

have tamed the shrew.

Next year will be better

your eyes might see

the better crop of me.

Our seasons are short

like a stubbled beard

in a snowy field.



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