June 14, 2011 § 2 Comments

born in the wrong decade
he called me, laughing
with his eyes the way only
old men can –
but he was old
only in soul,
with river eyes
running fast and cold
Irises speaking
not of flowers
but forests of unspoken stories
And paths untrodden
Drenched and dripping
In untouched underbrush, waiting
And I thought – pots and kettles,
Plenty of time,
And answered him
with smiling eyes



§ 2 Responses to #80

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