day/poem 18

-- the world on a plate --

her hands span from the horizon to forever

and the lines that etch age on her face

speak of the wisdom of the ancients

whose lineage she continues

dry hands that can never quite be salved

by the softness of petroleum jelly nor ulay's finest

and grey hairs, each strand a thousand worries

take precedence, each day advancing

no mercy on darker tresses that once held sway

she would give us the world

if only we knew how to accept

but our hearts can never stretch that wide

we are not made to accept that particular dish

instead strike out our own paths

prefer to learn from mistakes that have been made

since time began

which foolishly we claim

as our own

and when we see our own offspring

diving headlong into the error of their ways

not even that offer

will be enough to hold them back

from doing as has always been done

and likely always will be