Summer Indolence

I think I need to work on my titles, they aren't very imaginative. Oh well. This poem is about the emptiness that Summer often seems to contain. It was fine when I was young, but now that I'm older, the slower pace seems slightly worrisome.

I wouldn’t say I fear it,

but this emptiness

does concern me,

just a little,

particularly when I lie

in bed, thinking back

to when I woke up

and on the nothing

I stretched tight

between those clear

lineations, the taut

haze in which my summer

days are passed.

Life once seemed

to hold so much more,

meaning of course, pain

as well, and not so far

back, only months,

last winter, when each step

was imbued with life altering

meaning, each word of text,

speech, or movement

open to a world of meaning.

Then I lay in bed

playing hermeneutic hide-n-seek;

I wonder what she meant

when she said that.

Now I just lay here,

hoping sleep comes soon,

fan dancing, heat roaring,

darkness buoyant,

and on that warm, churning tide,

my thoughts float,

just staring up at the sky,

not asking, crying, wondering or dreaming,

merely staring up, and seeing

almost black lit with almost white,

and fall asleep

to dreams of vacuity

and a tomorrow of white noise.