Decades of weaving days drove by unnoticed
hobbling slidely through
the unkempt meadow of my brevity.
A fierce uncertain frailness flies in heavenly lines
towards the cracked unmended plate of joy
which earlier in my halcyon days had slipped
out of my tender clumsy hands
I now and maybe neverendly howl with many
shuddering fountains in
the whitewashed hillsides of my sanity.
Then soon I let me go and fall into the ground
amidst the sounds of season-tainted trees
and reaching for some leaves as blurredly I went down
I found the home I never owned
© 2012, Alan Morrison