I wonder if anyone knows
how much I enjoy old age

"The Eighth Month in the mountains
the perennial fruits are at hand." – Stonehouse, 69














Snow so cold it has become stone
it litters every city terrace and alley
piles along the sidewalk turn to icy pillows
they tighten spaces to bedroom comfort
Some days I walk along the hallway
of these gifts of hours as if in a cloud of dreams
when I was young I felt the motion
of a wooded creek as silent poetry