Wizened Wood




I couldn't visit with only
things
I had rehearsed in my head.
I couldn't think of going to bed,
without a chill articulating each vertebrae,
as a xylophone.
How many times did I try to phone and tell you,
I couldn't pretend to care.
You weren't aware of the sadness
I wore as a shroud.
I was too good at not showing
what was going on, inside.
Never knowing what to say,
I tend to keep things to myself,
until,
as dry rot
I'm consumed
from the inside out
Then, I fall apart
as
wizened wood.

Joan Pond lives in new Milford, CT., in the midst of 182 acres, shared with deer, wild turkey, black beer, and her german
shepherd, Tango.
E-mail: boodles1@aol.com


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