Archive
09/24/10 - (3)
In My Marrow
To what weird silent abode of flown spirits and souls Has the week I've been here disappeared? I hear impatient time whispering, in my ear, Intimations of another season's reluctant retreat. Or is it death's messenger, Muttering, under its fetid breath, In a threatening, barely intelligible dialect, Something to the effect that I'd better watch my step, Not look back, at the shadowy trespasser, Disguised as crazily decorated leaves, blue skies, Rapidly closing in on me.
I well remember staying in this lake-graced village During other blustery Septembers, But not ever feeling cold so close to the bone, My skeleton aching, from some unknown malaise. Indeed, on those unconflicted brisk occasions, I took lasting, lyrical inspiration From this land's rhythmical tranquillity, The austere, often-raw randomness of nature's severity. Why, today, my marrow stirs with such vague despair, I can only hope has nothing to do With winter appropriating my bones, too.
09/24/10 - (3)
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