Greetings, dear friends:
The day is bright and beautiful, yet I'm traveling to a space somewhere inward. I dropped the broom while sweeping leaves on deck and hastened slowly to put my old and fading man's introspection to paper. The layout is 6-7-7-6:
Mute the old man may be, In silence he says it all. Smiles he gives to passersby, A shy wave from his claw. Broken frame, crooked spine, Say "I have been there, done that." Handsome then and strapping ... tall.... Youth has fled, not his joy. No wish to talk, tell all What paths he's trod the world o'er Names to drop from lips now stilled. His silence says it all.