I spent the day searching in the long grass.
I found wrought iron hardened by beating
But to no edge.
I met angels who turned into phantoms
When they were kissed.
Perhaps, I thought, if I could forget.
If there weren't so many fragments, traces,
Lingering scents,
I might simply be there with the wind
Stirring grassy waves, green intimacy,
Not this gut clenching.
Still searching. Could I not not understand ?
Why is the knowledge of futility
Insufficient ?
I spent the day searching in the long grass
Stinging with small cuts
Hunched. Stiff. Cold.
When the scythes have been
And the way is clear.
Perhaps it's better
Just to be old.
