Nights that could not be passed over,
days that seemed to linger,
a reach in taught, desire remaindered,
trees that budded and are not remembered.
Purple, gold crocuses, late summer's golden rod
There have been dreams,
shaky gradual drops,
tricked by an unfocused dearness.
Ah, the sun's revivification.
I have heard prayers,
and I have heard their answers:
sharp, dull, flat to full.
After a night's furious sleep
an edgy fatigue,
still, stubbornly resistant to null.
Frank Praeger, MI, USA