I am awaiting his approaching death.
There, I’ve said it openly at last —
although in writing only, not with breath.
The slowing present hurries to be past,
the dear days dawdling to their close too fast.
Meanwhile, for the most part, we pretend
liveliness doesn’t lag and life won’t end.
An experiment in rime royal, prompted by FormForAll at dVerse
These poems are works in progress, and may be subject to revision without notice. Completed versions appear in my books. Nevertheless copyright applies to all texts found here.