As old as living room plant
Outgrown its clay pot
Boistroisly tripping you up
On morning journey to work-desk

Still life listens carefully
For soft speckles of dust
Thrown asunder by beating rain
On window's glass
Tiny vibrations shaking life of dust
Room aging gracefully
While occupants reverse in age

As old as morning coffee
Like ice and bitter

Old as heartache
That never leaves
But just goes quietly
Into quiet spaces in the day

Await conversation
Await conversion
Sleep until daybreak
Until dreams of waxen leaves
and golden dust shaken up
by raindrop vibrations

Older still