1
These clothes my former lover made
Fit even better as they fade.
2
There’s frequently a lot of dust
in what we think is solid sand.
In finding out you never trust
your eye or how it feels in hand.
To quench such curiosity,
fling it to the wind! You’ll see
the powder, born in falling grit,
billow, and abandon it.
Then you’ll know exactly just
how much rock and how much dust
were in that pile of so-called sand,
lately lying in your poised hand.
3
Exactly what you had will then
be known, and never known again.
The clothes she made are wearing thin.
© 2009 Edmund Pickett
(This poem may be copied or forwarded, as long as
you retain the copyright notice and author’s name.)
Tags: edmund pickett, poem, Your Poised Hand