Late. Again. Restlessness startles my nerves awake. How does that old saying go? ‘No rest for the wicked.’? I can’t see the sun without missing the moon. There are no absolutions for some things and I sit here this early fall night, alone. Frightened. Furious at myself for coming to this awful place.

A smear of light blinds me as a car turns around and sweeps the house with intrusion. I don’t like other people. Nor do they like me. Caring has abandoned me. Alone … not lonely.

I hope the moon won’t fall from the sky. I hope … just for now. I hope.

Somewhere dogs yap at passing coy-dogs and I wonder what hapless creature will be eaten before the daylight rapes the tranquility. I wander out and listen. Try to breathe deep, this gut-wrenching, gathering gloom.

And I stay. Just one more day. I will stay.



sliver of light

saves way for the nightingale

cedar trees sigh

© 2019, Susan Miller. All rights reserved.

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Susan Miller
Clinging to the yesterdays, I sit, old now, and tired. But still riding my horse … looking not young and lithe, but more a sack of potatoes being toted faithfully by a horse almost sour in his work. Yet … we keep going. He, walking and grabbing weeds. Me, pretending I’m still young and strong. I dream. I long. And I tell the story of my life through fiction and the occasional poem.