Torpor

The hours don't race by these days, and that's okay.
Beyond some point, beyond procedures, one begins
To think there aren't that many left. I sit. I've gotten
Good at that. I put down what I'm reading, and I
Stare out at the snowy valley, pained, as always,
But at peace. I never was adept at setting goals
Or choosing where to go, so torpor doesn't bother
Me. The sun has slowed. The hours, gone arthritic
As their viewer, barely move, and I am pleased.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 37 times
Written on 2018-01-26 at 15:25

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