JAMES CROAL JACKSON

Exhaustion      

                                                             

The rain falls, turns to ice.
In my periphery, the knot 

in the blinds' pullstring slinks
down, but when I turn I see it 

has not moved. Still the afternoon.
Now it's dark. I have not slept.

The rain keeps my heart wet.
I want to come home soon. 

Missed the changing of the leaves.
They're dead now, waiting 

on another season, the one
that draws the bees out. I 

wanted to do so much today,
but I haven't started.  
                                                                                              

 

 

 

                                                                          

       

           

         

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