Tiredness

Sometimes, one is too tired to write. Sometimes, one is too tired to do anything but write.

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It rained tonight; imagine this, this rain
Of steel magnolias rusting in the damp -
Quenching the roar of heat-oppressèd brain,
Blinding the vigils of the star and lamp,
Bringing the pain of bones and muscles old
To dim the ache of heart and lust for gold.

This rain, a harbinger of evil tides,
Soothsaying whisper of the march of Ides.

My heart wants sleep; wants flowers in its bed,
Wants warm goodnights to cloak what lies ahead.
October falls through space, none stays its flight;
And soon November fails, lighting no flames -
Too far ahead, too far; it rained tonight:
Blooms without scent, and lovers without names.