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.
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