Love of faded color, the time-worn,
The openly abstract, as if, as if
It weren't the result of personal practice,
Reverence for altered neural pathways.
Samely, they loved clouds,
The way they lifted their heads
Behind the pastured hills,
The way the wind bent the grasses,
The way the dying apple dropped its heavy arms,
The way the crows called it home.
Samely, in quiet, they thought things,
They had a way of being in the world,
Delivered from the gilded impertinences
In the last, best decades of their lives,
With all the time there is.
