wears years like tree rings,
becomes rose-hued in the view
of a new moon,
while, across chairs
set to face each other
like knee caps, faded hair
curls around a weary neck,
strained from closed buttons.
Years swallow the past
like fasted Fridays,
part company, and raise
themselves for communion.
Eyes fall closed
to rest like a Winter Oak
blanketed in Saratoga snow.
(c)Nancy Powell 2007
from How Far Is Ordinary
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