The morning has already fallen
into ennui.
Although I don’t believe in ennui.
It’s just that I’m so tired of talking
about sadness.
And maybe it isn’t that.
Fog hangs on the mountain,
I am grateful, as I always
am in August, for the overcast.
A short walk reminded me
how quickly I’ve lost
the ground I had gained.
It’s too hot to walk in summer.
I don’t get up early enough
and tire by the end of the day.
Mostly it is the day itself
I tire of, the effort
to extend myself into it.
I lose spirit as much as energy.
I wish I aspired toward decay,
it’s so much easier to achieve.
A hasty descent is always easy.
this morning the trees seem so serious,
and I don’t know yet what it means.
I am uneasy,
this dishonest morning doesn’t seem
like August, but I know by noon
I’ll remember
it is.