Sat Sep 29 2001

An Old Poem

My dusty windowpane and desk,
Slanting sun waiting for the dusk.
Beneath the pile of books and papers
An old, folded sheet appears.

A simple poem-

In black and white.
I can see me sitting down to write;
With even margins to left and right
I must have thought it just right.

But it was an old poem-

No more brilliant in black and white,
As I read it by the fading light,
With bloating ink, yellowing paper,
Shades of gray and hints of colour.

A poem, of sounds now silent,
Of lost rhythms and uncertain rhymes,
And words no more of definite intent.
Like a poem grown old- and wise.