My season passing

A guest in this
house of days,
my season passing
in an ocean of time.

Some guests leave early,
their voices ringing
like chimes in the
winds of experience.

My mind is passing
through this open window,
the moon as full
as my old heart.

What can words say
in these waves
as my hands
wrinkle with age.

I sit in silence
to listen closely as
the minutes unravel
like thread,
as the hours flicker
in this sea of night.