There, a hook sticks from the
and on that hook a coat is hung.
A frayed and leaking seam, exposed,
tells all we need to know of time:
Of winters frigid, clutching hands;
of life protected from its grasp.
The coat, once new and freshly spun,
when life was young and newly grown;
Now old and ragged like the man
whose weary limbs it still becomes.
Is this dull, unlucid cycle all there is to time?
Or was the life worth living?
So the cold was worth enduring?
And does the old man in his memories