Furling Fingers

an early breeze,
from feather wisp
intention fills
memory’s
vacant white seat.

odors forge
flameless candles,
every new light,
count the years,
that pass too soon.

fading each moon
in autumn,
crusty inclines
crumble fast

and disappear.

jelled gray matter,
now dead 
in withered fingers,
sloughs another  
life-story  pleat.


YVNIII 2/3/09