I apologize that I’m only now getting to writing part five of the recent series of posts: it has been an unusually trying weekend, with some difficult, taxing, and painful choices that I really didn’t want to be confronted with making, and some that I have yet to make. Here is part of the fruit. 

The trees lean to the setting sun,

salute and dismiss; soft shadows lament

the commute of their sinister cousins, who run

from their holding cells, with malintent.

The midnight-rot weeds-out the glow

that clings to the leaves; wind grows cold,

and the shivering spreads ‘cross the grass,

which huddles in fear, and then retracts

from life, under the shadow, marching bold.

The birds are wise: at these portents, flee

with the sun that processes across the sea

while the dark, in pursuit, stalks hungrily.