I ought to kick off the covers and get to work,
But I sense the darker-half’s approach, I sense
the inevitable and imperceptible shift of my world.
Some unseen hand has shuttered the sun, and so
a light-lover wakes to darkness instead of light.
Known to be willful, I have been naughty under the major’s eyes, but how this?
Why sanction that the landscape henceforth rise and fall in sweeps of grey?
Why, for my petty profanities, deny me the pure gold impressed in morning?
This diktat my eyes protest first, then my toes; but
soon every inch of me has registered as anti-grey.
Not one toe can be coaxed aground
Not for hot cocoa, nor for apple crisp;
And not for anything less pleasing.
October ought to have brought colour alone, I think.
But that taker swept leaves from limbs, thick and thin,
Then left us all with a deep and fibrous longing, a
Longing for bright moments past, but fated not to last.