My Beard Grows Wild

I see on my forehead the first
Age spot has appeared, like rust
On an old farm tractor parked beyond
The fence and fallen out of mind

While, under it, the way weeds and grass
Untrimmed send up stems and stalks always
In disarray, my beard grows wild
And tangled but no barrier to the cold.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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One Response to My Beard Grows Wild

Mumble back at me

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