Circa 1900
Waldo sharpened the blades
of his turn-of-the-last-century sled
and slid
Downhill at age eighty-four.
His wife chided him, “Old fool!”
It jades,
The spirit, with the practicality
survival crams into an aging head.
What more
Can it do to the slat-and-metal tool
discovered in inanity hid?
Pity
So many slide into dead
in hours made days; days, decades—
done did.
December Branches
Time must loathe green eyes
————————-that look at the earth
and see through its lies the verdant reflected
——-where there is none.
And Time must wear white hair
————————-it shakes out when
the green that has aged into coffins of amber
——–is gone with the dead.
Time’s fingers, I am certain,
————————-are long and bony and bare—
twisted with eons of reaching forth
———-through December.
Are these Time’s begrudging, tortured limbs
————————-scratching at the skies?
They must be. It must be Time’s
———tongue is forked and its teeth point north.
Through Winter Windows
Bluish Arctic vixen and snake-slough gray this sky
that moves like a torpid timber rattler through
cold slate stone so slowly you barely notice the progress.
Much of the wild has sheltered itself away from the ice
and snow and the quiet-toned musings humans do
to be okay with reflection on decisions gone awry.
You see them in impermeable dens shedding a guess
for a near-certainty in turn driven out like the field mice
their denials sweep away from the thoughts they chew.
*
Daril’s latest collection, The Box, was published by Outskirts Press in 2021 and is available here.
Learn more about Daril on our Contributors’ Page.
(Photo: Tony Fischer/ flickr.com/ CC BY-ND 2.0)
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