or count the solitude of time
sitting with these paintings on the wall
framed, within the pains
of an outside, which never moves.
I see the trees, solid in their stance
bare limbs, brazen against the wind
to watch the things I know
and the quiet of the garden gate
rusted in its swing.
To sit upon this strife of day
as stubborn as the dead –
now left alone to beat my way
towards a rising sun
for who am I to waste a life
when there is still a will to sow.