These Hazy Days

Precarious

I feel a tugging of sorts inside myself—

Drawn out, perhaps, by the wind in the maples

And the new dark that speaks of coming autumn.

Change is fledging into conflicting forms.

So much should change, but will not.

So much has stalled and grown still.

And yet past eras have begun

To dismantle and fall around me.

Former fact has reached its ruination

And has donned its duty of decay.

And darker, even, grows this day—

Ripening is this summer.

Be careful, says the cold gray sky,

For here you walk precariously.