After Carolyn Grace’s “Limn 1”  

November gray: moist air floods my face
as I muse on things avoided, feelings untraced that linger
as I watch their hidden blades, hoping their swirl will miss me. 
I worry a lot, listening to my conscience’s buzz.   

But I can trace the sun’s path, from the shade of discomfort,
the bite of the mind, always itching for a world I no longer have, always
worried about our lot.  I listen to the buzz of talk as I sit silent,
my head loud with fears, shadows sharpening my heart.  

Always the bite of the mind, itching
for interruptions, a chance to play, but the quiet
continues.  My head as sharp as my heart, all
a state of blue and red.  Sometimes I cannot catch my breath.   

The quiet betrays me, no interruptions, my buzzing mind plays
with scissor blades whose swirl I can only watch, not stop.
Yearning for the breath of the next generation, I’m blue,
caught in a golden haze, a square of stillness.