A Poem Born of Fatigue

Do not read this if you're feeling tired or blue.   The title and sense of the poem have been in my head for a few years.  The fatigue of the last days . . . settled onto the page.  Life is good,  just a little tough sometimes . . . and surely, too short.


                                  Falling Away

Some things don't change.

Mid January.

The sunlight finds a path
through the clouds 

that blanket the horizon.

The patterns it creates on the walls,

falling through winter branches,

are familiar.

It's the sun.  
Pushing back the covers.

Stretching its broad back

to start the year over again.

In this house, for years,

I've watched the seasons

blur one into another.

Buckling soil above greening shoots,

rhapsodic bloom,  resultant seeds, 

endless lawns,

leaf-drop.

Mid January.

I sit watching patterns.

Timeless.

Only I, have changed.

Only the family pictures,

on the sun-drenched sill,

mark time . .

falling away.



























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