WordsOut poems
by
Gironde
A dry track runs through pines along the shore
where the roots hold the sand together.
The lighthouse wipes the sky and washes
the moon’s cracked face. Tonight its beams
pick out no horsemen. Life is change,
and change is just a line of little deaths
whispering like the wind high in these trees
L
in dying.
In a season such as this
the soul may shrink and dry like leather
becoming a hard, small ball,
something to be thrown and hit
beyond who-knows-what boundary
if not caught in love’s firm glove.