The hours, long
melt away in the evening
canvas, leaving a sketch
to be drawn upon
tweaked and rearranged.
Outside the sprinklers
have begun their work
and time becomes defined.
He knows another moment
has become many thoughts
well into the autumn sky.
One wonders when those inklings
the patterns we strive,
we live our universe by,
will ever cease in earnest
to draw time,
away from one’s capacity.
He wallows feeling the night chill
hopes again that some aspect of the waiting
will eventually find reason,
help him welcome his decline.
