//mypoeticside.com/

tundrol

Control your ass

There is hardly a breeze. The February sun

Stretches forth long fingers, and begins the slow thaw

Of our deep-frozen bones, so that things new begun

Will, in the coming year, ripen, grow and mature.

The church bells chime the hour, tediously questioning

Our good use of the time, mocking our intentions,

As though we could never succeed in fashioning

Anything that endures, despite our pretensions.

And night comes slowly on, the light in the West dims

As the sun disappears below the horizon.

The moon rises between two great clouds in the East.

Stars come out one by one. An ass, sad lowly beast,

Complains loud to the sky that his rations are gone,

And I feel his dull pain in all my aching limbs.