The Settling in of Fatigue

Not wanted – weed.

Bush, tree, leafed, blooming,

thistle, burr, petals falling,

pollen, samara, catkin dangling,

spider webs, and punky wooded

long fallen trees, shredded, picked over.

Woodpecker at my side, coreopsis at my feet,

and still the fallen may well weep,

but tulips, daffodils, forget-me-nots

have not yet been forgotten

nor have the grasses stopped.

Varied green and last night’s mist,

I have been there, too,

before the dully darkened grey sky and amber walk-throughs,

have been where there were no messages,

no after dinner discussions

disparaging lonelinesses of lost afternoons,

and the inconsequential,

the innocent rainfall,

the brooding ever watchful crows.


Connections I have mulled over,

the labyrinths I have constructed,

lavender, green and yesterday’s mist

subjugated by an anger

that no mandate contains.

An early morning legacy of confusion

enumerates the hours, tallying up conclusions,

stories that do not jibe,

and after finale, abrasions, soliloquys,

a catkin’s hurried passage,

a maladapted worrisome tirade.

And it isn’t only

that I am old and, as before but more imminently, dying,

nor do stardust or angels console.

Some trees, few bushes

and all that is behind the subterfuge of weeds,

and then there is the fog that’s always changing.


More so than with my own reply,

I’m never more at ease

than with the guttural sound of bullfrogs

from a cattail hidden shore

throbbing suspended over watery surfaces,

over quotidian disconnected wayward spaces.