In our hands, you said, we hold the shadow of our hands. I know the cold absence of the marbles, olives sprouting from the cracks.
The coffee grinder turns slowly, gently. The moon still kind, bathes our wrinkled hearts in light. In silver. In sorrow.
Old souls sitting by the river listening to the boat engine starting, coughing, spitting, dying. Starting again.
to the poetsonline prompt: Dear Poet: Epistles to the Poets. For the other poems on the poetsonline.org blog, please see Archive, ‘Dear Poet’ on their site.