by Morgen Kirby

*****

and on this night I sit,
drinking some wine and remembering
what used to be.
I wasn't always what you see, I was
younger and less weighed-down by
what secrets I kept,
what news I heard.
I had my family yet intact, my
book of sorrows had only those small things
that growing up entails.
Yet, like this rough wine, I wouldn't change it.
I've earned these lines, this weariness, and
treasure all the pains, small and large.
This raveled sleeve of care may be mended poorly,
but it is mine, and yet keeps me warm.

*****