by Reuben Torrey

The afternoon is heading out
between the curtains.
It leaves in its wake a shaft of light
across the room.

The flecks of dust caught floating there glow
like golden bits of time.
And the cornered winged-back chair has aged.
And the potted ficus

has soaked the water it was given
and has grown.
And the bookshelves on the wall have drooped
under the ordered weight

of all my learning.

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