Sufferance

PEAR — April 16, 2021

Too late to contemplate
The volume of the glass.
Still time to undermine
The damage of the Past.

The crest of every hill
Peers over what is left
Of shoulders slightly sagging
And setting in the West.

The sands have tiny hands
More fragile than the rain.
They pass right through the glass,
Then slide right through again.

Then condensation clears
With winds as finely fresh
To wipe transparent slate
And bring a cleansing breath.

The light is not as bright.
It shines with warmer hues.
Each day will have its way,
When nothing’s left to lose.