What do you make of it
the antagonist of my life questions the moon again the swish of street noise the hum of morning’s arrival
nothing I suppose tucking the intended jab behind the pale scrim of no real response
yet the guarded challenge what of the daffodil yesterday its small nub poking through the frozen ground
what of the ceiling still anchored there amidst the forgotten labor no over labor but still the birds finding a nesting place
what of the waking moment when in your visions eye you could see the clock but it could also mean nothing more than a ticking
what of the chance again to tell your son you are sorry you’ve done your best
what of always another day to realize to be a mite upon something else but a mite just the same
it’s not that I’ve forgotten the simple wonders
it’s not as if I’ve let go of what I would’ve once called hope making it a mantra for my years
it’s not as if I’ve lost a fight
it’s not a fight it never was
there is the moon
there is the swish
there is the morning’s arrival