soft ones, laughing ones.
tattered, dog eared book ends dusty on the shelf.
forgotten and remembered.
a breathing in. a letting go.
tucked inside the creases of a mothballed shirt.
old soul sung young.
and us. us who are afraid to cling to the wrinkled, the old aging breath,
we try to stamp out and smooth down the aged.
when we parted in and out of the doorways
with death strung out across our back,
no fear in hiding from the poetry of old age.
tight closed fists. and in the small bits,
we wrinkle ourselves,
wrinkles pressed in the creased quivers of living life.
in the breathing in, the folding of hands,
and the breathing out, through time stood young.