Old Things

One of my favorite surprises is when, upon going through old things, you find a simple treasure that you hardly even remembered. An old photograph. A flower you were drying in a book. A note from a forgotten friend.

A few years ago, I sent a few poems to a woman whose writings I admire. An eccentric woman of good taste with a keen ear for words. While going through some old things herself recently, she found them and gave them to me with some words of her own: "Powerful stuff, miss."

I read them. And re-read them. And took those words in. Four poems I had not thought of in years. Poems from past lives. From experiences I barely remember having... until I read them again. The feelings came rushing back, the reasons I had to get it all down on paper, the hightened emotion that led me to the poetry. A good poem, like a good diary, captures the guts of a moment so clearly that when you go back and let those words wash over you - you're there again. In an instant. Especially when they're your words.

OLD

I want to grow old with you

so you can lend me your arm
as we take slow walks around the mall

& you can kiss my cheek during the day

& my forehead at night

& i could sleep safely in your embrace

from our first day

until our last breath

together

& my pains would be yours

& your joys would be mine

& we could eat at little diners

& notice young couples

glancing at us

while we love

still as our wrinkles

& gray hair have become abundant

& our speech softer than it used to be

& our hands would feel empty

if not filled with the other's heart

& soul

& our bodies would wither

without the warmth of synchronized touch

& time will be less important

& age won't matter