tumbled against humanity
like so many rocks
we are rubbed raw
until we must either
break
or be polished
until we shine

Walking through the crystal water
reflecting the light on the granite stones below,
I come upon a wall of glass.

In the wall, there is a window--
too high for me to reach,
and too small for me
to squeeze through.

So I look for a door.

Come, Lord Jesus!

a lifetime of failures
back up
in my subconscious
like a clogged toilet,
mocking the wisdom
ostensibly gained
at midlife

in the solitary desert
of restless wakefulness
my aching body
clamors to fill the
empty spaces
in other desolate wastelands

exhausted and spent,
I crawl on my belly
to the Source of my life
and beg for a drink.

The crispness of Autumn
greets me every morning.

Nature's fiery earnestness,
propels me, strengthened,
towards winter.

Statistics*

A shadowy figure
waits silently for its cue,
unseen, yet expected
invisible yet perceptible,
discernible yet unacknowledged
by the caregivers
in the room.

Once the inevitable visitation is over,
they breathe a sigh of relief,
not realizing that the specter
does not abandon the room altogether.

No.

Their being there, their caring and caretaking
has shortened the time
the specter must wait
to come
for them.

*This poem is my response to reading that "the stress of being a caregiver will shorten the lifespan by 10 years."

Ode to Early October

It is early October.
The days are shorter
but the temperature still hovers
around 85.

The leaves on the trees
are a sad and pathetic green
although some that are khaki or sepia
have fallen, exhausted, to the ground.

Will we see color this year?
Will we feel the crispness of Autumn,
greeting us every morning--
and nature's fiery earnestnes
propelling us, strengthened,
towards winter?