So much of what I’ve written before feels like innocence.
I could no more write it again than the earth could cool.

How did I find this pencil? Was I reaching in the kitchen drawer
for a twist tie, or did I fish it out of my old shorts?

It’s hard to change, being old. It’s hard to start over.
Death is no longer a metaphor.

We have wine. The label is stained with wine and
resembles parchment or an old man’s arm.

These hot days and short breaths are the sweetest, never
to be repeated. Leaves fall in July and come to mind.


By Peter

After stints as a trial lawyer and a church worker, Peter Stephens has settled in as a Virginia high school English teacher. Peter has read several books and poems. He wrote none of the posts below filed under "Passages." Click the link at the end of each post to see it in the context of the author's original post.

1 comment

Comments are closed.