and so – what of your age?
if age indeed is
wisps of days –
not hardwood brittle
sunken slowly in the grass.

do I only feel?
what passed from you
to me
across the table
between soft words
of beauty
and wry knowledge –
that is yours.

would I could have
worshipped at your cradle
No, I stand in awe
as evening tide released the shore
in galant form, loving what came too far

I have no return for
wisdom -
that is yours.

lead me then, your acolyte, to drink deep - of
such a man I cannot think to ask for more.
and may that also be yours.