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| Snows Of That Tibet |
| So how is this? What I will be with old age? A blotched and missing page. The wind blows colder now. The light is brighter and hot. These hands are what I've got. Too many dying memories. There is a texture to time. Flattened creases. When clean new surprise ceases. Habit surrounds paid litany. News is a crackled recording. Comfort, a practiced sorting. Two feet to an end. The ocean rolls to a rhythm, turning the baked sand. Tired proposals of and... The line stretches to the West. What is done, of regret, Snows of that Tibet Will melt alone. Tap the skies in turning a sunset, a rainbow rectory. Capture one blind story. Dusts in a trillion tread trails. Whirls counted in wood, Silent waters stood. Enough is good. � 2000 DPMcClellan |
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