The muse left long ago
The chills of winter bespoke the air
Simple dew settles early in the short fall eve
And a promise settles less so
Age wearies and tests arthritic joints
These age’ed bones feel every creak
One’s not as young as the stallion no more
Born by not so much more than caustic wind
I sit and draw in the briskness
And severer a slither of grass to chew
Blurred by expectation sits the horizon
Crowned in golden glories of a sun yet set
Emblazoned on a memory that does not forget
Tepid brews of leafed matter infused
Fail to invigorate as once it did
As does each blurry dawn
Soon to arrive the night song
Sheathed in a petticoat of black
Unhurried retreat to the warmth of a solus abode
Seek refuge of the well worn chair
Sparks n embers crackle when jimmied with prod
Stirring the dance of the flame
Well warmed and heavy lids signal the drawing of day
If this was the last time we slept
I have a feeling, thats okay