The cusp of seasons waxes a melancholy mind
each turn a little less sure how the sun hangs
in the sky over the homeward drive
low for a while then high
confusing time
Shows even at five and ten and twenty nine
when the world felt twice than alive
everything was always dying
Each pass the summer skies go undermined to autumn
then fall to ice beat back with new grass
wither in sun's fire
While inside the dishes and the laundry pile
hearts ply and lose desire
blind by days
to the ties of light and outline
perpetual arresting revise