Old Poems

the rhythm of old poems, precision breathing in and out, nose and mouth. reality fogs a window on a cold winter morning, clears the congested mind one wrinkle at a time. in our misspent youth, we twist words around the tongue and take them out of context without real meaning. after we learn to stammer in the italic frame of spoken language, we speak without real communication, every word uttered is misunderstood. the rhythm of old poems, simple beauty without change. i always come back to them pure as the frost on a window pane.