51/86: About Nothing

Not much (nothing, to be honest) to say this chill, sad, late autumn Sunday. The bright light on red pokeweed stalks and their burden of dead, brown leaves livened only by flutters occasioned by vagrant breezes belies the clarity of the blue sky. Nothing but the sky itself is ever as simple as that sky. The world's details, sometimes so fascinating, are today merely tedious and wearying.

I wish my mind could lose itself in that blank sky, and become as quiet. It already is, I fear, as distant. As I didn't wake until after nine o'clock this morning I probably shouldn't nap, but I probably will. If I don't, I'll end up eating again, and distressing my guts to misery. So goes the slow catastrophe of age. Too late to do anything about it now, and too soon for it to do its own inevitable fix. Too bad I'm no longer good at distracting myself from the tedium of waiting.


( Sunday Verse )