Eleven months (a poem)

Something I have been thinking about for a while.

Profuse apologies and profound regrets
it was not so long ago
that seeing sunlight again
felt like an impossible ambition
buried under strata so deep
they may never have names

Without change in my pocket
an afternoon stop for coffee
and maybe a piece of cake
felt like an impossible ambition
for someone with so little of it
but managed to get by somehow

And the fault I felt was my own
a stain expanding thread by thread
filling in the spaces between stitches
sort of like the impossible ambition
spilling over the rim of the glass
in disguise as good intention

One August morning, I asked myself questions about a sign I saw from the bus. That after­noon, I stood at the side of a room and looked into painted faces; they looked back at me. I imagined they had something to say.

I never saw what was coming.

Profuse apologies and profound regrets
between old photos and always something to take care of
sunlight became a distraction
sort of like impossible ambition
Clouds chasing midnight devoured the moon
November drew its curtains closed

Shadows shortened; nights grew cold
until the long branches of tall trees
dipped to mere inches from the ground
like an impossible ambition exposed
the lights went out, and I fell
into deepest winter

Profuse apologies and profound regrets
it’s been a long time
I’m opening the windows
learning to love sunlight again
and maybe ignore my impossible ambition
Care to join me?

(18 March 2019)

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