as if the veins on the back of his hand
thin out like a glacier melts
unsure of the future
speculative
only the quiet roar of ice floes crashing
echo the past and what follows
in a strange equipoise
they ask the heavens their meaning
occult as a sphinx yet
to be decoded of its message
but it was lost
for the last desert wind
wore down its face
like an enigma
Flynnpoetry 