Anxiety
By the goldfish pond at the end
of the walk, a spider labors intricately
in the overhanging sage and rosemary
to build a snare for thirsty prey.
A deadly spiral from the center out.
Out here on the side of the hill
I call my yard, the sun burns through
my shirt and the humidity is thick
enough to drown the impulse I had
to get something done today.
I thought to cut the grass, or repair
that place on the house where the rain
has eaten away the wood. I’ve got
gas for the mower, and lumber,
everything I need except the ambition
of my youth when nothing could
stand in my way. But now, I’m not
so hungry I feel any urgency to spin
anything except around, and head
back inside the air-conditioned den
to worry about what just happened.
Copyright
Vol Lindsey
11/25/2011
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