Reunion

Stout, calloused hands wrap around my own,
and I think of this dear land,
of dusty sunburnt earth
baked the color of these old hands


Born of this timeless place
of stoic countenance
that divulges few clues
of deluges and drips that shaped the land.


His eyes shine azure blue,
framed by a tear on edge.
His cigarette and bourbon voice
still maneuvers that cool cadence,


"You know, my friend, that lately
I have nothing left to give.
It's all lousy mornings
when hands shake
and form's impossible,
on a potter's wheel
that just won't dry."