Today

Tired 
My breathe sounds like a squeaky leather coat as it wheezes in and out 
Tired
No time to fight the cold
either temperature or virus
Tired
Dragged from here to there
from this to that
Tired
Aching joints and muscles
highlighting the graying hair and wrinkles
Tired
Struggling and striving
for that light in the distance
Tired
Being optimistic in the face
of negative opinion and action
Tired
Waiting for the ship to come in
the knight in shining armor

So sleep, my dear, and dream. 
For, tomorrow

November Leaf

I've found an old notebook of things I wrote ages ago.  I decided to revisit this one.




Step out in
the foggy gray.
The air smells
too sweet
of October's rotting
leaves.
As they lie in wet
molding heaps.
Dead puddles
sit at the curb
as more leaves
block the grate.
Trees stand bare
in huddle form.
Guarding each other
uselessly against
November's wind,
that makes this
morning's paper
fly like a huge
misshapen moth.
Yet, on one lonely
tree.
One cold lonely leaf
still clings.
Braving each new
breeze.
Waiting for it
to tear her free.
To join the
November leaves.


(originally written November, 1973)