Artificially old, through scalpel and pain,
I spend long hours in a rocking chair
under the sycamore. Get a sense
of the distanced calm I see in my elders
as my pace is slowed to theirs.
The spool of time unwinds
its long trail of sunsets.
Grass grows perceptibly from morning to
night.
The contented chirp of a robin with a worm
has been heard for hundreds of years
but this robin, in this moment,
makes my whole body sing.
I lie back, a fragile veil, for the breeze
that wafts through me.
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