I thought I had
ripped that vine down dead,
but it grows on,
out of reach, even in winter,
mocking me and my scythe both
-
Day 14
-
Day 13
a word
for soft green with deep crevices
fluttering
in dark, yellow-gold sunlight,
unburdened by wet snow -
Day 12
perhaps he does not
love me as he once did or
perhaps he never
loved me as I thought he did —
I cannot see in or out -
Day 11
remember
how busy they are — babies,
homework, office —
when you are old and wanting
them to serve you dinner -
Day 10
love is the blue
of the sky behind clouds,
beneath the earth,
up to the moon, wrapping round all,
of air, hidden and ever -
Day 9
that you will fade away
over six point four years,
so says the wise
actuary, and that I should
budget appropriately
Poems from in between 