A poem after 50

The black veins of the day
pulse deep inside:
it's me again, noiseless,
small and almost insane,
crawling behind the exact words
to define what is impossible
as minutes observe me
unbuttoning my self.

nothing ever changes
who stands at the window,
looking for the speakable word,
not now, not yet.
consider this.

i am half a century older
and less wise.
yes, life was,
yes, life is
and i don't know anything
about myself.
now i slow my voice
and sit on the edge
of so many truths.
now the density of my day
can be measured by
my lack of sense.

karla bardanza
http://karlabardanzapoems.blogspot.com
http://poeticpostcards.blogspot.com