Image: Kathryn Yingst
November
gray and moody
with its dusty shadows
like a crypt
opening
At least
that is my sentiment
at 5:35
when I am mercilessly awakened
by the alarm
Morning is heavy
on my back
as it bends
beneath the weight
of dreams interrupted
What happens now?
And by that
I mean
to the beauty—
to the tendrils of grace
and the soft hues
of compassion
On the table
my Schlumbergera
stretches her fuchsia blooms
the ones that appear
precisely
when all else goes dormant
Her blatant tenderness
ever defiant
Kathryn Yingst
2024