I am an untended corner of the garden.
My regard is for the rocks tossed my way.
My anger is my sunlight. Silent evenings
are my rain.
I am left with a packed suitcase.
I am puzzled by my own reflection.
Days are spent making arrangements
to do what I would rather not;
drinking wine I never really cared for.
Ashes and dust, what now?
In a dry July my spirit hardens with
the ground. There is too much daylight. I
wait for evening and when it arrives
I wait for sleep. There is so much waiting and
I dont know how.
Nothing is what i am most afraid of.
This wind cannot fill the hours.