there are too many
apples. far more than we could
ever eat alone.

a birthday nears and
I have no wish to make, no
candles to blow out.

what was this year, but
a violent reminder
nothing good can last?

a cat on my lap,
long-haired and purring deeply.
trust is a dear thing.

a stick of incense—
pale, serpentine smoke and the
scent of coming sleep.

music from outside,
uninvited yet welcome,
joy is so fleeting.

the notebook fills with
scraps and scribbles, the poet
questions everything.