A Month or so Past 35

I stare at the bearded

reflection in the blackness

of morning.

We’re well into October

and soon footsteps will crunch-walk

instead of just the usual PLOD PLOD PLOD.

Of course, I’ve written about all this before;

probably last year I would guess.

This poem is a never-ending cycle.

All poems are.

Like a seasoned year,

the words hunker in the cold,

then bloom in spring,

bask like vipers in July,

and then reflect heavily

as they all begin to die off;

ready for the winter emoji’s.

Tomas Bird - Peach Embers 2019