Every man knows, he’s only as good as the fish throbbing in his net.
Only as good as God gives his hands clay.
Only good when good is spread-out, like a picnic on a spring day.
Every man is old in his good — failed or found.
As old as gold in lost hills,
ancient as unknown veins in scrabble mountains.
Every man wakes up to his dog and asks,
how many man years left boy?
And holds his heart, and cries.
Photo by Ralph Starkweather