Ben Howard

What I May Rely On

 

Turning into nothing, all those days
Remain in memory, as though their patterns
Persisted when their dyes had long since faded.
Here is the morning sun. And here is dusk
Consuming every tree on the horizon.

Turning into forms of which I know
Only a little now, my own two hands
Tell me that the bones beneath that skin
Are what I may rely on to continue,
Whatever may become of mark or wrinkle.

 
originally appeared in
Leaf, Sunlight, Asphalt
(Salmon, 2009)