Work Text:
Walking through the dead and dying leaves
scattered across my path,
breathing in the sharp, bitingly cold late fall air,
I realize that almost four months have passed.
This thought strikes me with a sudden chill
far colder than the November air,
and I wonder if these hours and days
have been well spent.
Have I grabbed the coattails of this time
and ridden them through every last second?
And if I’ve let this experience begin to pass me by,
how should I respond?
Is there a frantic scrambling to discover and force
a meaning on this time,
or is there a passive release and nod to defeat?
Is there such a thing as wasted time?
As I slowly continue walking my cluttered path,
these questions hang,
frozen and unresolved,
in the frosty air with my cloudy breath.