Fragile lives
Bullet into the ground near
Half the speed of sound

Gray hairs speckle a bald head
A rich dark forest
One moon past

Anxiousness about arriving to
Loved ones' greetings
Seatbacks and trays
In upright position
Fresh lemon scent of
Faces cleansed with little white cloths

Where does one go
When we are not moving forward,
Ever forward, anymore?

Could all we are be dust in the wind?

But then dust cannot love.

To the Top of the Loft

Copyright © 1997 by George Clay
All Rights Reserved