All the Signs
Are Here
It's not all that mysterious
really, the new crop of brown spots
on both forearms.
Three fingers on my left hand
gone dead white from old nerve damage,
and my dog coming out
from under the covers
seven-times-ten or seventy years
old with breath to kill.
So, all the signs are here,
we're leaving. Happy days.
Good-bye to receding gums,
the waste of despair,
old loves chewed on
way too long.
Clouds that make themselves up
over and over
as if change is all that's permanent.
There's nothing sad here.
Think of that little red double-ender,
its paint chipped, fading,
going out and coming in.

--- From Wu Wei
Tom Crawford
©2006 Milkweed Editions
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