so they say,
squirrel in the hawthorn
bobbing the ends of branches
as the dark day prepares
to roll toward darker
and the old man,
not amenable to our schedule,
still sits at the table with his tea,
not drinking much,
though the clock ticks
and the hands circle round
I may turn frequently
in my seat,
looking for the next thing,
but life is right here
working out its own design.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 12, 2017
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