Age covers us like drizzle,
time is interminable and sad;
a salt feather touches your face;
a trickle ate through my shirt.
Time does not distinguish between my hands
and a flock of oranges in yours:
with snow and picks life chips away
at your life, which is my life.
My life, which I gave you, fills
with years like a swelling cluster of fruit.
The grapes will return to the earth.
And even down there time
continues, waiting, raining
on the dust, eager to erase even absence.