Reading these old poems as they age
these poems I had dug out of
pressed orchids and fungi
winter memories of spring
ashes of summers past
the song of snow hissing
the hollow melody of moon
the forgiveness of sand
and so much else
that bleeds or sings
or glistens in an eye
Reading these old poems
resurrects the prayers
that haunted dreams
iterated by desiccated lips
hurled like clicking chicken bones
at the stumbling feet of the dinosaur
