a tiny jam jar of primroses, a trite gesture.
but i admit each flower’s soft imperfection,
is enough to demolish this tired heart,
lacking response to anything but high.
i am weary in ways i cannot name.

to escape to nostalgia, to a known ending,
would kill me dead, six feet under. usually.
but just now I see the appeal of it.
bees hum round purple heather;
reaping the last of the day.

my back’s against the wall. truly.
there’s no metaphor for this warmed stone.
a mug of tea in hand, eyes shut against the sun.
this point will exist in time forever.
i was always coming here.

sit still till i grow cold, watch the sky,
draw inwards, retreat, quieten, repair. begin.
in a grate, restart yesterday’s fire with new wood,
admit the savage satisfaction of the leaping flames.
i am done with tiredness and holding back.

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