Under late summer

The grasses are yellow 
and beaten down
They crunch underfoot
I feel that way
worn and brittle.
Out my window
the banks of the river
have become broad 
revealing a natural 
end of life 
pictured evolution 
in fallen trees 


I want for some joy
a break in the
relentless chasm 
of uncertainty
My sense of well-being
chipped away
leaves temper too close
to a cracked surface
stretched too far 
searching for joy
in the minutia
The tightness in my chest
begs for the lightness
of cool winds and steady rain
to temporarily submerge
the evidence of all 
that’s been broken

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