Dry kernels, withered husks

Sprouted from seeds sown
with dim accuracy in spring mist,
meandering in cock-eyed rows
through lucid farrows, drinking sun,
leaves once plump and green;
tender kernels drowsed
in yellow dreams, bursting
with remembered rains.
Now rough and reddened,
basted in dry pale heat,
now rasping, now gnawed away
under the consumed moon, fading,
my hands still grasp at youth.

Inspired by dVerse and Samuel Greenberg’s “Impromptu

By coincidence, I’m reading “The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper,” which involves a charm bracelet. My suspension of disbelief is greatly strained by the decrepit 69-year-old protagonist. For Heaven’s sake! He’s my husband’s age! Hardly Methuselah. But then I remember my notoriously (prematurely) old-looking, arthritic hands, my portrait in the closet.

9 comments

  1. Love this especially; “leaves once plump and green; tender kernels drowsed in yellow dreams, bursting with remembered rains.” Beautifully done 💝

    Like

  2. I’m not sure you would have to strain your suspension of disbelief. 69 seems like a swing age depending on how one has aged you could be quite vital or decrepit. I’m already feeling somewhat decrepit 20 some years younger. But then I realize I have a physical disability to explain this. But then I was watching Springsteen on Colbert last night. He’s very spry for 70!

    Like

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