The headache and a cloud
pattern fascination is yours
but I’ll not give up the sky
I’ll bequeath everything that
drags blurs or shadows my
soul-surrounding agonies
excess solar energy is killing
me but I can’t see tomorrow
happen without it somehow
there were some plans; a few
weeds to hand-pull in a down-slope
sinecure along irrigation lines
a jaunt ill-weighed against real
work – if I still had discretionary
strength to discriminate
so I stay indoors, drink tea
and squeeze limes that fell in
the heat seeking relief like me
if you take away this damn allergy
I’ll most graciously add words used
to express profound relief for free
© 22 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
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