Old Age

The pressure of November sits on my head
like brick.  Like grey breezeblocks
compressed days squeezed at either end
like man-used toothpaste tubes
The stain-glassed light of summer seems
imaginary, illusory, child-like pure
The glee and euphoria of syrup-light buried
in dark-days, damp-days.
A month to the hump. A month til the
shortest, squashed day.
Will I get there? to the release of expanding days?
Of course I will. Speeding days mean each
compressed November is shorter.  before long
winter will pass with no more pain than a
plucked hair.  And I will look wth affection
at the past.  At the damp days, dark days
when time didn't speed.  I know this but still -now
...I wait for the expanding of the light.

Hope

After summer's barefoot, wet
grass, soft air, gentle breeze
I am enclosed by Autumn.
Hiding in cocoon. denying
the shortening days, the early
dusk. I wait. This year will
be different.  The shortened days
like shortened lives will not affect
me. I look to lengthening.  I look
to the coming of the light.  I will
wait the coming of the light.