When winter leaves

Yesterday I felt old.

As old as the calligrapher, who lives in the castle, on top of the hill, in Ljubljana.  As old as the terracotta tiled houses that the castle looks down on, or the shadows of the alps that surround them.  Yesterday I was as old as winter when it leaves; replaced by sunset dances of spring hares.

Yesterday I felt disillusioned.

Not mature and venerable, versed and seasoned, but grizzled and grey haired and tired.  As tired as the wood chopper taking branches from his oaks.  Incapable of empathy, prostrate with bleakness, and weakened by my own dullness.

Yesterday I felt old.

As old as the calligrapher’s font, on the squishy pulp, that once breathed in high forests, in Ljubljana.  Not trusting my veracity or the perfection of my memory but rootless and wavering and clouded.  There was nothing in my basket that could liberate me; not even sunset dances of spring hares.