Anti-Biotic

In my old age,

my luminous doom

transforms

into the bacterial helpers

of a digestive system

no longer attacked by antibiotics.

The dark skirts of my anti-angel

swish and menace only in memory

now transformed into polished

prose agates and newly-sprouted seeds.

A stone on the river bed

has traveled further,

but my monsoon days are returned,

scented with sweet rain and dust.

The white fire of the stars

greets my eyes new as eggs,

a childhood postponed

turns tinker toys into houses.

My luminous doom,

light as moths now,

sturdy as hand-worn tools,

vanished into something sharp

and piercing as winter sunlight.

Note: My birthday poem. My 30th poem this month! I've impressed myself, and that feels very cool!