The Years

Such were they, a dumb stuffed thing to say, if truth is we all grow old un- observed, limbs flail only halfway up a flight, where does dark begin settling my little bones. I dream and do love to have them, blue fish in a lake, my head more tipped up than down under damp earth. Some days others like deer from the shot, peeled back, how I find trees dressed in wild green light. The years come, unstitched a face, saddled as one would a heavy beast for walking. Likely I became then a member of heaven, put up, the years come and reaching their long wet hands.