a song of freedom
wakes up the morning with 'yes,
here I am,' it floats
in the air, bold and fragile,
'this is my territory'

its heart flutters and
beats - in the wild, survival,
is to sing for home
(just a small urban corner),
it is to sing for love

tick, tick the countdown
US election day looms
anxiety - hope

my brain spins and spins
with thoughts of you. I'm lonely
and obsessed and blue,
but must drop the pretense of
us being together.
The summer sun will climb
in the sky again
but now the year
falls to winter.
I am cold and in the dark,
enclosed.
I must walk in the autumn sun.
I must shower and shave.
I must move through life
as if animated by a spark.

True anomaly at Epoch -
I spin in orbit
locked.

The corn in the sunlight
shivers before the harvest,
as the wheel of the year turns.
We eat the bread.
We drink the wine.
The year is reborn.
The sun returns.
We endure winters.
We work and we sleep.

The landscape is stubble
shaved by the Reaper.
In the Spring, we will
plough it under and
plant seeds.

The landscape is stubble
shaved by the Reaper.
Plough it under and
plant seeds in the Spring.

I sit and watch as
the great wheel of the year turns
and the virus ploughs
a furrow through our lives and
the Reaper rests before the
Autumn and Winter harvest.