Under a robin’s-egg sky, as autumn runs
Warm, windy fingers through my hair,
I watch a cyclist fly down the
Sun-dappled sidewalk, flashing through
Speckled shadows cast by the live oak.
The distant, forlorn wail of a freight train,
The throaty growl of a plane climbing
Up from the runway, the metallic clank of
A halyard slapping some nearby flagpole:
The day’s music, notes that play around
Me as I sit in a small brick pavilion,
Dying by inches.
Gethsemane again. Teeth gritted, sweating
Blood, I endure the savage death throes,
The usurper’s vicious battle to hold
The stolen throne. The spirit kneels, but
Self screams with animal outrage, bares
Dagger-sharp claws and sinks them deep.
Red-hot nails on a burning cross. But
For Your embrace, I’d howl “uncle” before
The coup de grâce. So You hold me while
Monday smiles, blind to the struggle in
Me as I sit in a small brick pavilion,
Dying by inches.
“He must increase, and I must decrease.”
