time laughed at the sleep
presented in final hours
examined my fingers
still strong, callused and searching

the still night air,
and a smallish voice
reminded me of aging.
of what is unfinished

across the room
roses fade metaphorically
fleeting, mocking
in a lifespan moment

one hundred and seven years
was whispered in my dream
a farmer tilling diligently
as roots slurped love’s muddy soil

the nuzzling nose
of a neighbor’s pet
unlocks your heart
releasing you from fear’s leash

hope loves you madly
from deep within the green glint
in which you view
this world of possibility

age flies from your frame
on brown and white angora wings
you are nine years old
and I am the same.

© Tom Watters 5/30/08