Eighty- Three

 

Ecstasy pleases me, to say the least.

Not the thrill of a child's Christmas,

Not the promise of love at sixteen,

Not the joy of holding my first-born.

I prefer small things, having grown smaller myself.

The smell of me after asparagus,

The feel of a cotton cap,

The sound of feet on a wooden floor.

 

John Woodmansee