PRIME ( a poem)

 

Each wrinkle on the back of my hand, is my boulevard of time,

A well traveled map, that goes back to the beginning of my prime.

Every crack a canyon wall, each dip a river wide.

My well worn soles have holes, and I wear them with pride.

All of the fissures point one way,

to my heart

down a well tread narrow trail,

past the weathered mailbox hanging from the rusty nail.

There you’ll find me, amongst my flower garden walls, staring at my hands, remembering all the faces and well intended plans.

Thinking of all the roads taken, along my unfolded time line, back to the beginning, the very beginning of my prime.

                                                                                                written by: Teresa Asman