Day 645 of the daily poems and it is your Editor’s birthday.
Methuselah
Methuselah is a very old man,
his back is bent, his cheeks are wan,
his face is creased, his hair is white,
his name is down for that last spaceflight
while wife and children play the tunes
he spends his days among his runes,
these are Methuselah’s metiér
from letter Z to letter A
his mind is busy, his lines come free,
his poems flutter down as leaves from a tree,
sighing and shivering in the pearly air,
cooling with time like the words of a prayer
Peter Ualrig Kennedy