It is a westerly thing, this torrent
of wicked wings which probably
would like to suffocate
whatever good’s left in us.
The dying trees sink back into their roots.
And then, it’s strange, but something
like love pours its liquid fingers
through the cracks of our organized yearning
and leaves us squeamish
but hopeful for the new day rubbing
its cheek against the crooked sky.
Goodness, how long’s it been?
Before you know it, we’ll be scheming
our old youthful schemes again,
and this time with more hair on our backs
and the wherewithal to follow through.
-r. miller
How Long
Published
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