I have grown old and crabbed
early in this winter air
muscles filled with the crackling of disdain
throat grown pained with clenched reprimands
i am too soon snarled in a twine of negativity
i do not startle when others cannot penetrate
to the spring and autumn children within
if the visage of my quietude is a distant threnody
played weakly on broken flutes
it is no surprise they figure it other than mine
i am hunched to my work, yoked to my duty
come prune my withered buds
i yearn to blossom
