The Old Man's Hands

the old man's hands
know the feel of the petal,
his bruised lips the taste.
his soul rising with bloom,
and laying down with finality.
his heart the earth,
that opens and devours...
his spirit the waiting,
that becomes creation...
the old man left staring,
through a window with no name!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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