The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Robert Joe Stout

Growing Old


There are times

when life splits

into so many joys


one just hangs on,

amazed. And times

when one is alone


in a garden

where nothing 

grows. And times


when one takes

someone's hand and says,

"Why were you gone so long?"





Over powdering stones

of what had been

a house

cascades of scarlet


wrap window,


but thorned,

bringing blood

when touched,


                        so much




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