that winter of life,
that holds nostalgia in a box.
Cobbled in moss and stone are
archaic uses and turns of phrase
for the existence that is passing.
The box is timid, like hands wrinkled
by too many stoked fires.
It coddles and withholds a marked
increase in wisdom. It shows us
we are not wise in the evenings,
when the stars are disrupted
and ion trails dwindle away into a light
fast future. Closing our eyes wakes us to destiny.
It is our minds, lethargic with slow
conversation and broken memories,
that are already knowledgeable. But wisdom
comes with worldly knowledge removed from captivity;
an understanding of apples
when compared to oranges falling from the same tree.
That is snake medicine - forcing woes
that arthritis flares. Venomous,
we retreat to Aristotelian caves,
but cannot remember
if they are even Aristotelian.
As our hair grows longer
and our skin recedes, it is the graying time
that triumphs. But it is the nature
of "what things be" that gives us
immortality in the minds of those
that are building their boxes.
They have yet to gray.