39, Winter

This is all just narration –
Life encoded for the page.
The rewards
For attention:
Harrier along the highway,
Kingfisher waits on a line,
Winter-kissed daybreak
And a hard frost
On the field.

I come to love waking best,
Even if it means
Dreaming by day.
Counting backwards
Into territory
Grown unfamiliar,
But for the constant
Whisper of unease
That rustles through it,
Like so many
Dry oak leaves
Grasping at stems
Through the long winter.

There is a clarity
In this dawning age
That is almost more
Than I can take.
I never wanted
To see so plainly.
After all this time,
I come to resent
And to relish it.

And making good —
Despite all of this —
Is an end
Worth waiting for.
So allow it —
The slow turning of pages,
Until the whispers settle
Into wind.
Then vigilance might cease,
And sleep come
To carry those
Brown leaves away.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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