Eight Lines for the Eighth Day
Do planets get political at night
and side with stars and nebulae or us?
They don’t. And you? You say you do alright,
but days when memory stalls you acquiesce
and cry, the garden’s gone. All change and blight
remind you how we tried, then failed our best.
With age you feel the tidal pull in all,
this body, puny, wrapped in shining caul.
(Okay...I know it's not the most cheerful stanza, but it's all I've got in me tonight.)
