The Wager

Every day
I wager grandmother’s heirloom
white glove, the delicate
line of pearls sewn tight like the story
of her seduction, for this:

that she will see me, cross into me
bringing fingerfuls of her own soil so
I will know the smell of leaving when it’s time,

when the glades grow dim and the dew rises
and I must rest alone against the
whitening sky, with neither wind nor gravity
any longer my regard.

About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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