A weird Thursday, woke to snow (and an open window since I totally missed that forecast). Bright and sunny and cold but with wild wind and changing sky. Worms are settling in. Internet finally returns after twenty-four plus hours… it’s been real -real something.
But hey, we’re here for the poems. Sometimes you get a line and just have to go with it, just like days without internet. This seems to be a weird two-parter joined by the idea of “worn”.
Worn
I.
Evening comes holding a handful of tears
something about four thirty or seven
The hill across the way is yellow-lit
in the day’s last slant, somewhere birds’ last song
Night comes by and sits in the eastern sky
we watch the light change down to grey and blue
This morning there was snow, which, just to say
that this world is a wonder of beauty
and yet tears come cold and without warning,
well, each day. If not four-thirty, seven
and not even the relief of crying
So much it seems I cannot understand
How will the world be, reentering
and seen with eyes so worn by tears?II.
This old sweater, I see the wrist is worn
away from use – I wear it every day
almost year round, so no complaints I guess
but what will I do? become one who wears
a sweater missing parts? And what of warmth?
I’ll be sorry to see it unravelled so.
I try to be pragmatic and think of what
I’d like to wear instead. Maybe two
rather than one so I’ll be less that sweater
and more me coming up the steps,
more what I do rather than what I wear?
Perhaps a nice black wool or charcoal grey
I feel like I’m cheating on an old friend.
I’ll pretend it moved away, and may return
with newly knit cuffs and glad elbows.
