Ruddy, Crusty Hours
by Ray Fowler, MD
Copyright Jan 1, 1988

(Time in Space Home)

ruddy, crusty hours
squeeze aching beads from
furrowed brow,
wretched moments, as piled
on duties press out unwelcome
complicity, blended flavor not
so much unlike remorse,
but very much like regret

same stresses, different places,
manifold actors playing a scene
of priggish moments scarcely seen,
yet held to forced attention's bow

we, amid, these mixing murmurs melding
melancholy, fiercely mellow, mightily
fallow, awaiting gracing presence to
grant anew passions' stirs of
quenching quafs

sips of each, swallowed deep,
impending press of love's sweet sleep

how these hours fly and crawl,
the same, too slow, too fast,
each moment blessed,
and cursed the same
for stumbling long

yet, northern lights
compel my sights,
next moments bliss
when thee I kiss,
and stroke,
and ply,
and stiffen,
and sigh...