Querulous, discontented days…no tears,
   too late
The lines of joy on his face are
   sharper,  shorter, deeper
This is his zest... more valuable than
   he thought...
but not there yet
No more tears... too late
An old muscled wolf
   carefully climbs this forest hill
   its bristly grey hair
   stiff and wet in the moonlight
If you always ask the same questions
   what do you hear?
Stops, stares, sniffs...
How will you ever trust anyone again?

-February 15, 2009-