Endings

The black ball of fear sits

at the back of the garden

rolling imperceptibly closer

with every breeze

it is not born of guilt

not this time

but the horrifying inevitability

of impending endings

 

I can do nothing else

but wait for it

soon I will be able

to peer right inside it

to see, to feel

the endings

that have been stacking up

blank, black dominos

 

here, in the pale of winter

the wind is unflinching

perpetual

has edges

the endings close in

blotting out the cold sun

I steel myself, hoping

for birdsong and sky