Lay of the Land

reading between the brow, furrowed as it were, the earth - the dirt of his face, his eyes - his eyes tell a tale seeded with rhizomes burrowing deep in his psyche from all the rings of his years what has grown down there? mushrooming into fullness of speculation and strength, of oaken striations lining all the creases of life and the bird's-eye whorls that are his eyes the impossible is there, the possible is there too the anger of burnt suns past ruddy iris's is smoothed in saline glistened to a cameo pink stubble sticks out from the furrows and cracks of mounding cheeks and a bone-dry chin jutting into a world it has known for seasons beyond the horizon facing the future dauntless, with a smile, his countenance beckons invitation to ask, questions that he asked once and was given answers by choice, by others or simply by living © Goode Guy 2012-08-22