Rising before the dawn, again,
how quickly the days fall off,
and how quickly some things
arrive like nothing, how others
don’t, until almost forgotten,
reduced to the smallest sort
of longing, a little bruise you
can’t remember how you got,
but there it is.
Backlit
the trees don’t look like trees,
branches indiscernibly thick,
it seems the sky is more dark
than light, the sun coming
through in little pockets,
hesitant now, having lost
its mettle, thin and hesitant,
distancing itself already.
OPTIONAL POETRY 
I so like this. Your metaphor of longing an little bruise can’t remember how….
last line…so nice.
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Thank you as always for your comments! 🙂
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It’s September.. 🙂
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…and I thought I had all this summer left, dodgy.
Dates aside, I was noticing very similar phenomena out in my back yard this morning with the dogs. Perfect for this time of year.
C, do you think you could write a bad poem once in a while? Maybe even a mediocre one?
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Ahh, I finally caught it. sigh. Maybe that was wishful thinking?
And ha! You are far too kind.
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Am in denial, apparently!
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Wishful thinking
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