|
Twenty-seven's not a time for scheming:
Winds within will find the western shore.
Each choice seems near immobilized with meaning,
Nor does one dare indulge the drift of dreaming,
Though winds and dreams alone tell what's in store.
Years dwindle as one wrestles with a door.
Some morning you'll be young again, and sailing
Easily along a quiet bay,
Viewing hills you've walked among, and failing
Even to recall one tortured day
Nothing told your heart what it must say.
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
