When?

Jane Dougherty Writes

When will there not be anguish that curls

in restless coils in the deep dark of flesh,

never still, sleeping the sleep of cats?

When will the day just grow in its own time

at the pace of cloud and wind, not ticking

to the hollow rhythm of deadlines?

Sky spreads high blue, so dense it leaves

smears in the meadow; shadows beneath

the trees flicker with wings and fluttering songs.

No calm falls when the wind

blows, and the snake shifts,

and the clock ticks.

Only in sleep does it stop,

the nagging amorphous fear

of failure, unhappiness, disappointment;

only because we hope, is the edge always

just before our feet, the cliff yawning, and beneath,

the ocean pounding on grinning rocks.

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