The shortest day of all is creeping near,
The spirits lag, the sun sinks, early, low.
The light is slant, strikes sidelong and slow–
The hours of lead, the darkness that we fear,
Morning light whitens trees to bone–
Do light and sky, branch, tree, and bird depend
On me? My consciousness hold off the end?
The blue silk sky has a coffin lining tone.
I woke today bereft, just wanting peace.
I once believed without me was no All,
But now I see I’m only part: my lease
Is like one twig’s, one crimson leaf in fall.
The slow return of reason: content to live
Until I’ve given that which I have to give.
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