The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Wearied

Brown-lit and crunching are the limbs
of a tree bent low
of a pot of dried earth
of a riverlet running slow.

Wilted under sun
crumbled under foot
these are the days forgotten
of falling by lilliput.

Pain trembles a neck
slouched and ready to rest
though age has not alighted
its weight is firmly pressed.

Till I think of you
and sit nearby
Till I lay back 
and in your thoughts lie.

I wonder about tomorrow
and shrink from the day
glance your way wearied
with nothing to say.

But should a nerve fire
or words rise to lip
I'd let them overflow
though tongue would surely trip.

For all your many questions
I wish I could convey
peace and steady answers
'bout the things that on me weigh.

But I haven't found a word
or two to speak or share
just brown-lit dim imaginings
of yesterday's cares.
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©2009 Mark Daniel Milbocker  All rights reserved.