Sun-Blood
©November 10th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
Red as blood squeezed from the sun,
The leaves sway thickly on the Japanese maple,
And fill me with dread.
The birds are silent, and the black squirrel
Leaps from post to post, shoring itself up
Against the icy tide of winter.
The dog waits for me, but I
Have no purpose, other than to wait
For something I haven’t given a name to.
Could it be that I just
Like waiting?
I waited when I was fourteen,
And when I was eighteen,
And when I was twenty-two,
And thirty-two, and forty,
And on and on.
Creating purpose is what I’m good at,
But what if I’m spent?
What if the waiting now
Is something else?
Or, is it just a habit born
Of a lifetime of waiting?
Anything definite is
Something done with.
Anything in the offing
Is something that could be,
And is all the more enticing.
I sit, entranced.
The air moves before me,
And parts,
And does not reveal
And does not reveal
That which I await.
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