10-21 At 70

At 70

 

Seasons blink by on the screened

back porch, potted plants venting

green pyroclastic flow—jays squawking

at each other across the birdbath

 

until first frost crusts the deck

and hones blades of grass.

 

At 70 a soul projects memories

on mind’s screen—that time where

kissing and kissing burst magma

through pours and fingertips,

bodies screamed for eruption

behind a dune that July night

 

mouthwatering even at 70.

 

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  1. Well said!

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