David Axelrod


That day breaks should warn us
life is a struggle, wind whipping
over the Atlantic, waves heaving
oward shore. Sun struggles
a shorter day toward winter
while we watch branches bare
their limbs for battle. What
will not bend will break, so frozen
people make the same mistakes:
a leg split open by an errant axe;
a house afire from fireplace ash;
Demeter wanting warmth,
asks her daughter, “Why?”  

Sunset is a gentle and welcome
state, colors welling in streaks
of cloud, flat strands of sand
at ebb tide. Night rejoices
that it is longer, darkness
so much stronger. We creep
inside, an end to toil, comforted
in our hibernal state. We need
not mourn the death of flowers:
let the tulips’ bulbs rest;
wrap tender trunks to save them;
accept that we are not perennial.
Even the sun must die.

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