This moment,
I’ll steal
from the still.
I sit, watching
sunbeams sneak
past window sills
wet with
winter weep.
This moment, I’ll keep
hidden beneath
my skin
for the wan duration
of January, February, March, April, May…
The cruel months here
mount fast.
Not cruel in the extreme
but cruel in their lack
of variation.
Wooly skies
at morning,
mid-day,
and night.
The stars
still burning
behind that shroud
of dusty clouds,
never out of mind,
but always
out of sight.
Even the
humming birds
shiver in obscurity,
their dazzling reds
and emerald greens
muted by the
long stretch of
drizzle and shade.
We were not made
for this
ever present
gloaming.
Now I’m reduced
to stowing moments
of weak light away,
coveting the mere
chance of warm rays.
♫ Here comes the sun,
a flash in the haze,
and I, a proud thief,
nick its minutes
of blaze.
This moment,
I’ll steal
from the still
of today.
pm poetry 