Here i am again without you.
With inky grey clouds filling in
under the spot of deep rose wash.
Temperature is chilly
and a glimpse
of the almost full moon
appears before the rain;
her shine proclaiming beauty.
There are tall oak trees
Leaves a mustard yellow
drying on the branches
waiting for the weight
of a first wet snow.
the suede brown grass
Of November
At 22 I dreamt he was the king
At 72 he slowly wills his body to vanish.
He was my 10, my never to be good
enough for him, ten.
He would never be good enough for himself
I had nothing to do
with his brittle sense of self
nor his cemented sense of duty,
his definition of how to be a man.
No, you were never number one.
But you could curl yourself around
my cumbersome aching heart
until you couldn't any longer.
Leaving me to witness
the daily sunset and wonder
how to paint sorrow and the sky, alone
Tomorrow will allow me to actually shoot the moon. Let's hope I get my car figured out.
Comments
Post a Comment