Anonymous fingertips
Tracing a pattern in the breeze,
Curled around translucent leaves,
Bathing in the green light
Falling in the shelter of that old tree.

That very same tree
Under which I sat, years ago,
Reading by the light of the summer Sun,
Or writing soon-to-be memories
Under brooding moon
And watchful stars.

Running home
With the sunset to my left
And the town to my right,
Hoping to be back for supper,
But having to stop
Every now and again.
To tie a shoelace
Or retrieve a stray book.

And now, when I retrieve books,
I don’t give them the painstaking care
That I used to.

Nevertheless, every word,
Every line of pen or pencil
Remains on the pages.
Faded with time, maybe,
But aged not in me.

Whether they still say the same
Is another matter.

08/11/2001

Posted on 12/24/2001
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince