I knew I was old when,
upon seeing a frosted windowpane,
I felt no urge to plow my finger through it.
The cost of a cold finger tip didn't feel worth it for the pleasure of dragging a digit through the frost, carving doodle art or a word,
the frost curling and tumbling down onto the sill to turn from chalk white crystals to clear bulbous drops.
Anyhow, the mere thought prompted me to etch my fleeting symbol onto the pane.
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry and tagged Old, poem, poetry by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
