What division, what factor, separates me
From this dull colorless night, keeps me
In consort with the bright intrusion of day,
Swarms me with thoughts of this & that?
Is it wife's empty space next to mine,
That normally is graced with Her -
The muse of my dreams, the restful touch
On brow, shoulder, chest, on marrow?
Or is it that realm of worry over strangers:
Clients, hangers on my words of articulation
Of their weary tolerance of trials unbearable;
My quest to finally express in their own words?
Or is it the blank space: Persephone spirited down,
To summer's deepest recesses, her inspiration roving
The home unbodied yet fully present in her absence,
Leaving us to bide impatient our unseasonable winter?
My problem is that those who should be with me
Are gone to other obligations: wife to the skies,
Daughters to other parents, peace to unyielding needs,
And sleep to ever expanding universes of angst.
This effort at rest - how hard it is to slip into the trail
Of watchmen bearing sand for eyes, escape erosion of respite.
Pence paid Peter now for universal relief, only hastens that final
Dissolve into the drab gloom - Maya reclaiming her dullness.
