I will interpret runes of my soul
in worsted wool, curling the ends
of bristled grayed mustache, I will
fight the ache of bones and blur
of ravaged corneas to spite years.
Wrinkles will feel like canyons
and lesser ravines as tears slide,
trickling to corners of my mouth,
salty taste will tease my dry lips,
muse will whisper, “let us write.”
Between stanzas, I will pause to
breathe in and out, with a moan
enough to oscillate vocal cords,
lung’s fog will veil gifted day,
icy November will coax a poem.
And I will pen what spirit yields,
I will reckon a life’s summation,
a heart’s soliloquy gently shared
with only furtive winds to hear,
as trembling lips, mouth cantos.
Copyright Michael J. Donnelly 2016