Outside In

Old fellow of the soft and brittle bones there on the front porch upon your creaking throne What do you make of this? Is it the honor of your age that sustains you now? Poets tell of wisdom, gifted by the years, but fickle as the breezes that caress your brow, that thought consoles a little while and then the shadowy ideas dance and play, just far enough away to touch, but not to hold and what remains? ...to scratch another afternoon of reverie into a soil once fertile, then grown hard and barren. Oh yes, there is this one last insight somewhere, lurking ... ah, but never mind. It's almost suppertime ~