Under the Impression
Inevitable
When I am old
I will fall and break my hip,
moving barefoot over
no longer familiar terrain
littered with shards of years
and remnants of unrequited instants,
cold congealed intentions
and unwashed possibilities.
My teeth grown long and loose:
I will bite down hard on futility
seeking to open its seamless hardness.
I will cry and rave
and pull off my clothing
to sit naked in June's puddles,
in my own failure to escape
wrinkled, sagging limitations
but I will pause and purr (still)
at the warmth of love
however fleeting and quiet:
the fragile yellow chick,
the snowpea shoot
in its rain-washed, dark earth.
27.1.17 Stef Rozitis
