By Rose Mary Boehm
woven from threads of laughter
The cloth has worn thin in places,
age, pressure and loss the culprits.
The moths of despair fed
on the weave of fellowship.
The web spun from threads
of youth and exuberance
sizzled out in the various fires
of the continuance of life. Over time
the material changed to the colours
and texture of embracing
what I cannot change. Change.
The waters no longer gush, the flow
will soon reduce to a trickle, the acres
of my earth lie fallow. I sense my descent,
pulled into the vortex where disappearances
are increasingly standard procedure
once the thin places rupture.
Copyright Boehm 2022