sliding

the larches on the hill are
aflame, overhead white
ridges of cloud move
slowly in the placid day

birds are busy at the
feeder as I sit and
read, think, of all the
tasks I fail to meet

keep my seat, do
nothing very much, aware
of the mind's lurch to

the past and all I miss,
all I should have
said and done -

there is no redemption from
unknowing choices
when we are young

previous poem

next poem