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Saturday, April 11, 2015

PAD - Day 11 - Seasonal - Poem 2.





Seasoned 

in that middle of it all -
one might think "Once 
I had MY season" with a
wince, grimace, groaned
shiver at the icy fingered
Reaper running the spine
Finally, one comes to see
fear of season as sense-
less artifice. The Reaper 
knows no such schedule.  
Time tumbles - All is now - 
in the ever-swirling center
season of oneself.
Inhaling. 

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