Today’s prompt was to write a portrait poem.
better yet the leaves are turning
into something real. He is out there
too, turning, gathering his thoughts –
wild as horses, and putting them
to bed on paddocks of paper.
Turning them real. You might think
his skeleton is what holds him together,
but no man is carried by bones alone.
Sure, there’s muscle too, a heart even,
a whole physiology; I mean the chronology
of bones, damage and silent scars, the stitches
that seam beneath the skin, unseen
and unknown to anyone but the wearer.
There are fantasies and mysteries: many men
are carried much further by those than bones.
No, as the grasses sharpen after a sudden rain
he is out there turning
old wounds to weapons.
Picture credit: Google search.