Crickets’ Song

                     Crickets’ Song


Sun sneaks through the sky’s smoky haze.
Clothes hang drowsily from the line.
I’ve learned another lesson
in an awkward snare of time.
There's agony I had not foreseen
in loneliness of aging.
In deers' dark eyes, I see my tears.
Crickits try, but cannot drown out my
raging.
It feels strange and wrong
no one waits here for me.
nowhere do I seem to belong.
Feeling set apart is a deeply unsettling,
drinking song.

Cut flowers from the garden drink
their last drops of water.
I taste the last of the strawberry lemonade.
From the first pitch of baseball season
to the whiffs of autum's vinegar air,
unimagined events torment my mind.
I've been a part of life's big picture
unfolding,
shared narratives from birth.
I search in vain for familiar patterns
of living.
The wind that has sustained me
and shook my soul with meaning
blows in a different direction now.
I'm not built to be broken
yet another time.
Too much is expected at this late date.
I've started over again and again.
The remaining chapters of my book
suspended before me,
pages of unfinished stories,
blank canvases devoid of my joy,
unwritten poems for lack of a muse.
Alas, no one wants to hear it.
I’m sorry for myself -
for releasing unresolved pain,
there is no coronation
at the end of the parade.