Poetry
prune.
sonnet.
Published in
Mar 8, 2023
denial of the way it all slips past
just makes it slip by faster; days ignored
in petulantly, purposefully-bored
insouciance of leisure — as when grass
or grain’s neglected until it’s amassed
entangling weeds; your ultimate reward’s
impossibility of moving toward
a manageable harvest when at last
the reaping’s due. far better to have pruned
consistently; quotidianly weed,
instead of feigning freedom from the clock
until the dust-mote-drowsy afternoon’s
advanced - and you don’t have the time you need,
as darkness falls, to rouse yourself from shock.
