a man carves out some scratchings on a scroll
he is long dead but
he uses an implement sharp as the beak of an ancient bird and
parses the past from the present
and the present from the future
at once a curator and a seer
he leaves the words scattered on the page
like an autumn wind
and there they spend centuries and years
baked beneath the anvil of the copper sun
but his letters are long dead in those sands
as if blown there by the wind across waters
which once flowed in the ink of his mind
as he grieved for her
Flynnpoetry 