in passing, no more

in passing, no more
the sun across the trees
or the breeze through the open window
no more
as night stretches to the corners
and the burning sun finally sleeping
brings some relief
no more the words that dress the fingers,
the pages, the books, the painting that lies
behind the eyes, unpainted
unthought of
now, even the images are not luring
drawing against a virgin canvas
demanding to be seen
instead, just passing
like a child on a bicycle
rolling oblivious passed
the smart fence-lined yards
with small dogs barking salutes
and running to the ends of their ropes
before they are reminded suddenly
that life has limits
passed the overgrown gully and low willows
to the pond
with only a thought to sit idly by water’s edge
until the fish bite at least once
in passing, no more
the wish for elsewhere, or anywhere
or nowhere
just passing
like the sun on its way to
beginning again


Leigh-Anne Tyson


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