Fitful Waking

Eyes fly at half mast

in the hours

long before dawn.

Sleep was fitful,


A place of dark dreams,

fraught with memories.



that bitter hand is setting in.

The cold.

The abandoned.

The calamity.


Like deep personal loss,

we can never be ready for it.

Like intense pain,

our minds occlude

all memory of it.


I am sure,

if we could recall

even a tenth of our misery,

we would all be mad.

Maybe we all went mad

long ago


Could that be

why this,

first, dark morning of winter

feels like a nightmare?


HG – 2019

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