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by Jim Moore

When you become old,
The act of cursive characters hatched
In a moment,
Paltry as sentences from someone else's hand,
Condemned to paper--white sheet and cumulus.

Will it be enough?
Will it be enough to know the ring of words?
The implied connotations,
The finale as residual as raindrops and diet soda,
A tumult of seconds adding up time;

You dream of it,
Like the flood of a wide-open spigot--—
And for an instant, you remember
What it felt like when it flowed.


Posted on 09/13/2007
Copyright © 2022 Jim Moore

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 09/17/07 at 05:04 PM

All I know and feel right now is to be caught-up in a muse such as yours just now? it is enough to breathe me through another day. This is magnificent reading.

Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 10/13/07 at 02:39 PM

When pen to paper begins to fade When words are more a jumbled jade Then time to count the years of yore And listen for the angelic score

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