Excuse my ma'am,
I said to she,
but when she turned
she was a he.

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.