The pangs that once arrived –
unexpectedly, always unexpectedly –
and only in the deepest of nights,
now visit often.
They come at daybreak
when the squirrels scratch
at the rooftop shingles
before leaping off,
branch to branch.
They invade the dull
white thoughts
of green grocers,
and bald car tires,
and rotting leaves,
and baseball statistics.
They rush pell-mell
into the morning shower
to deliver an icy lacing
to the whoosh of warmth.
Pangs of omission.
Thoughts of not enough,
not having done enough.
Enough love, and enough joy.
Understanding,
and, yes, enough wealth.
But was there reflection?
Tangible kindness?
No, never enough kindness.
And now, as the shadows lengthen,
and the amber hues of dusk,
once welcome, bestow only regret,
they are golden rays no more.