August 20, 2019

• melancholy

  

   

  the trees and the grass are aging.
  even the mist looks wrinkled
  and old
  clouds are going gray
  the sun is tired
  of rising,
  can't get up until late afternoon

  birds quaver their songs off-key
  and elderly insects
  complain with raspy voices
  as they surrender to relentless time

  only the rolling water of the river flows on
  day after day, and even that
  is by no means guaranteed

  among the dying grasses,
  broken branches
  where the wind hides, sighing and weeping

  i, too, feel as melancholy
  as a falling leaf

  • 8:45 am
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