Out in our garage to put something away
When I tried a new dance move,
A slight trip and to my dismay,
Did a pirouette, grabbed at a chair,
Not as good as old Fred Astaire.
My balance, now lost, I let out a roar
As I did a stumbling move
That's when I fell to the floor.
No one saw or heard my yell.
My hands hit the floor first,
The pain I felt could have been worse.
No broken bones; so lucky was I.
My advice to you, is not to do
My dance moves; Don't even try.

Our life is a shamble,
at least it is to me,
for we no longer talk freely.
You speak words, yes you do,
but there the same words,
that you say, over and over again.
Every few minutes you will say,
"I liked that place,
what was it called?",
not recalling anything
I'd told you before.
My patience has become strained,
as I repeat my answer again.
I do not say I told you that before.
Reminding myself, it's not
her fault, not in any way,
while I continue to see you,
slowly slipping, slipping away.

These words I write
on this Winter's morn,
will soon vanish
as words often do.
I pray that your life
will be good for you.

The light begins
on a frosty dawn,
with rabbit tracks
across the lawn.
Rabbits forage now
looking for food,
and now have
espied my Tulip tops,
from which they'll
bite with their chops.