At some point, I thought, the days, the years
would pass more stately—sedately. Instead, each day
breaks sooner, and the nights draggle from
dream to fitful dream while I'm wheeled
through the constant stars. The drab
melodious sparrows sing in the stripped-bare
limbs of the horse chestnut, its spiked
pods littering the yard, scattered like glacial
moraine behind the receding snow.

Volume 1, Issue 1, 2006