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  • Writer's pictureDarigan Daily Drop


Updated: Jan 11

I sit here

in an empty farmhouse,

cocooned in the scent of wood smoke

and musty books,

a cat nestles by ancient andirons

near a mumbling fire,

weighted by a healthy sorrow,

a bizarre sensation

of all this passing


Even when I don’t notice,

it is all a motion a blur:

baby to boy to man to father to grandfather

fading soon grey.

And it is always

in all ways, eventually

goodbye, goodbye.

That old toad in the woodshed

big as a piece of pie, still as a stone

heart thumping, one eye open.

The wee hummingbird,

magic wings lulling vibration,

softly buzzing by the bloody hibiscus

and regal iris

planted by grandmother’s hand.

I sit here

and these huge aching

realities surround and fill

this seemingly

perpetual moment


I think of thee,

and the taste of your mouth

I tremble to feel heat from

the embers in your eyes,

the arch of your back,

the treble of your sigh

as you lean close to me,

having to leave, not wanting to go.

But it all must go,

at some time or another,

the indigo dust

spread over the western sky,

the gold half moon

a rose in bloom,

old guitar strings so hard to tune

and again

it must be

goodbye, goodbye.

Now I see

how silly it is to ask why,

as I sit here


witness molten dawn

breach branches,

listen as bees cull pollen from flowers,

and the leaves,

like chameleons,

change with each floating hour.

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