Acorn Heart
Tired
but not too bent -
that’s me.
I don’t want to be old
but I want to be wise,
Don’t care.
I’m creaking
like slowing oak
and sap goes sallow
on its way.
Now, I’m speaking
with a growing croak
but unbowed
and not bust -
at least I’m growing,
and thus,
I’m sneaking
into night
with slow moon rush
over ground and loam
to follow though,
to hush
to shallow breaths
of closing eventide.
I wander on
with feet of clay,
but part of me,
I leave today.