The Art of Skinning Your Shins

 

 

Underpraised. Samuel reached that stage when life started starving him. It was like the end of Summer in the garden when the stems were growing stringy and watering was no longer eagerly done. Hope was no longer a part of the garden, now it was harvest time and fruits were simple taken if they were there without the expectation of anything useful coming.

Like the end of Summer
when stems are stringy
watering no longer
eagerly done,
hope no longer part.
Harvest time and
fruits are matter-of-factly taken
not expecting anything
new and magical.
Underpraised.
When life starts starving him.

When the sun rose and it was morning, Samuel open his eyes with a pop, the shudder was slow to arise but it came. There would be lots of days and there was a long list of things to do, things that kept him alive but were not nutricious in themselves. He threw his legs over the side of the bed nursing his usual stiff back. He hated to bend and delayed that action, but it eventually came.

 

The sun blasted through the trees. Samuel lived among the lower branches of the canopy. He could see the squirrels and birds at their lives, intimately but ignorantly, not knowing their language.

When the sun rises I open
my eyes with a pop.
The bed is warm
with the history of night.
The sun blasts through the trees
as it always has. I'm high
among the lower branches of the canopy,
can see the squirrels and the birds at their lives,
intimate but ignorant
not knowing their languages.
It is not morning
until I hear your voice.