Fewer Days Ahead

In the featherless margins. Of another grey day. I pause to listen. To a symphony.
It is blue sky. It is youth and longing. It is fear and redemption. It is water for a dusty soul.

In the mossy shadows. Beneath a dying tree. I stop to smell. The earth and then a rose.
The humid air. Is filled with life. And in life. I draw solace. Like blood from a stone.

In the damp morning. Clouds massing above. I feel thunder. In aching brittle bones.
The world outside. Seeps into pores. And pours into eyes. Open for the first time.

In the quiet gloom. Of an empty house. I strain to see. Light leaking from a window edge.
And I am content. With old photographs. With few words. And fewer days ahead.