Tired

Tired
is Butterfly
on the broken
chrysalis.  Meteor
smoldering into
our sky. Tiger
crouching by the remote
irrigation ditch
at dawn.

Tired is the flat wheel
on the new car, the
white noise
of the ventilator,
the pump house wheezing
by the flood.

Tired, I am tired
as material sundered,
air riven, water
summoning its strength
to break through
an easy weakness
and flow freely again.

Tired as a mourner
on the coffin, closing
his eyes and recalling
walks, runs, late night
conversations.  Closing his eyes
while still in contact
with the source of his fatigue
and missing the butterfly,
the shooting star,
the tiger choosing another target.