G. C. Jeffers

Minutes become hours which become days then months then years.

And the sun wheels overhead.

The same damn minutes are repeated, ad infinitum.

And the shadows lengthen.

The lines between rhythm and creation and monotony are obscured.

And the moon begins a silent vigil.

We were meant to dance among the stars, twirling between nebulae.

And the clouds blanket the sky.

The music of the spheres now goes unsung, for it’s choir has died.

And the sun returns once more.

We have grown fat and tepid and unimpressed.

And cut grass swirls in the uncaring wind.