There, a hook sticks from the wall,
and on that hook a coat is hung.
A frayed and leaking seam, exposed,
tells all we need to know of time:
Of winter’s frigid, clutching hands;
of life protected from it’s 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
contentment find?

link to home page
link to table of contents
link to next poem: coming to wonder if
blank image
link to previous poem: the flower
link back