tender reckonings

the sun pours

like melted butter

across the ash-grey of an early november sky

the sky

fragmented

somehow

knows to echo

my own

unformed sense

of what is next

or right

or even to be done

how is it

that i could reach this age

so unsure

so uncertain

and yet entirely aware

of all my strengths

and shortcomings

entirely aware

of the distinction

between the necessary

and unnecessary

ambitions

i used to confuse

with life

why is it

that despite

the landscape of my life

being laid bare

and finally

available in its entirety to me

for reflection

and consideration

admittedly

unfinished

i am unable to find the paintbrush

let alone the paints

the time

and the focus

to continue work

on the emerging painting

of the deepest purpose

of my existence

i cannot say that i am content

with viewing

the background

as if it

were the finished work