Somewhere, in the damp mold
and earthen rot of a Georgia landfill,
all the old pages of her calendars
are steadily feeding worms.
She tears them slowly now,
often stealing another day;
searching for smaller places
on the month's featured landscape.
She often wondered what
she could be when she grew up.
Still, she cannot feel herself grown up.
She might have grown away.
She counts all the years of her life,
and holds each warm day in her hand.
But counting does not bundle the days
into anything greater than moments.
Those speeding numbers
are quickly divisible by infinite
regrets, and missed opportunities
to become something different.
Now, the burning wonder is
what she can be before she dies.
There is an urgent need to become more
than torn pages, and soft fodder for worms.
Shirley A. Alexander
Shirley Alexander's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Torn Pages by Shirley Alexander )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- Home, Susan Oxford
- My writer friends and I, jim hogg
- six thousand years should do the trick, Mandolyn ...
- Strange is Life, Smoky Hoss
- Voice of your bangles, ramesh rai
- Eternal Love, Jesus James Llorico
- Butterfly, Tiku akp
- How time flies, DEEPAK KUMAR PATTANAYAK
- Precipice, Pradip Chattopadhyay
- The Striped Goodness Of The Candy Cane C.., mary douglas