Slow noon


My father is old and weeps when the morning is new because he knows too much, is soaked with wisdom. I tell you this and you nod and your eyes film with tears.

And something else. Look, I say. The shadows of the leaves are still, like held breath, but the thick tree trunk bends with the breeze. You see it too.

You can, even now, infiltrate these strange hours, interweave yourself with me. How do you travel back when I send you so far?

I didn’t mean to make you wise so soon, like the oldest of men in the new of the morning.

But when things are quick between us like this, slow noon is far away.





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Filed under poetic prose and prose poems

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