AN OLD WOODEN ROWBOAT
We may not speak in poetry
But we feel in poetry
Especially when we make guest appearances
in dreams
featuring every age we’ve ever been.
when we yearned for the love that we lost
Or when we reach out
For a fistful of pillow
Or skim along a lake
In an old wooden rowboat
That forgot its wings
Dressed in nothing more
Than, the formality of cobwebs
and an ancient morning jacket made of dew
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