What is lost?
What is left?

The new moon blue
The clouds blow by it
An armchair in the dark
One-eyed I spy it

and sit down
to drink the deep dark in

On my left an open window
On the other hand
an arm, my own, upon
the arm of that fat chair
I’m sitting on
(it’s become an over-stuffed fauteuil though in the last stanza
   the chair that I imagined was
   a straight-backed wooden one)

the last stanza
the last stand
the lost island
the one that’s left standing the one that’s sitting down

What is possible?

The world around me turns
and I turn with it,
whether I notice it or not.
The old ways die a bit each day.

What new joys might I imagine?
I am thankful for them all, though still unknown.

Dana Maiben, 24 November 2020