The clean silk, embroidered in gold
hangs loosely about you. You've already
cleared out the old tears and aspirations,
you prefer to nurse the fatigue of the long walk  -
and watch for the silent grey  dusk.

        After awhile the wind rattles as a glass
of dark spirits integrates with memories,
and the emptiness of what the years will not bring,
like the company of lost friends.
No, lost friends stay lost.

        The years bring only -- a certain penchant
for verities. No further need to magnify
yourself within the world. To the narrow path
its due: An easy security of modest plans,
beauties of small things, fascinations of histories,
philosophies, and polished hardwoods.

        The smell of things familiar you do not notice  -
but the life journey fits like biscuits and butter,
like wool gloves on cold mornings.

        If  you could gather the glories of these years
and carry them with you simultaneously shining -
you would have light enough for your next journey.

© Carlton Godbold 1987

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