Intermittent

I wake late out of heavy sleeps, a village alarm dragging its drawl across the valley, the sirens 15 minutes behind, what rush can we possibly have here. The house is quiet. I realize before the coffee even sinks into my wrinkles that I only have as many hours of work in me as there is sunlight, that come dusk I will be five layers of Christmas lights and deep into the advent of a nap. Nothing sleeps as well as the country. I postpone a meeting and buy myself more time before returns. 

 Is this what we wanted with our one, wretched life? 

I say I'll write all the poetry when the night quiets, but when the night quiets I thirst only for sleep, I say I'll make right all the wrongs once this darkness passes but it dawns on me now if may never pass at all. Make hay in the dark, dig where you lie, bloom where you are discarded to the wayside. 

We have no choice. the only way out is through.