A Pome a Day for a Year

Warning, warning, waning, waxing,
our Moon reflects the light of worry
across this stream, this meandering river bank
as we lay ashore,
our view of the night sky impeded
by shivering trees.

We want to move,
but captives to ennui we remain,
the right moment just ahead
of the cornerstones, no traffic approaching,
no societal outrage to propel us,
events surround and accumulate upon
our bodies becoming mounds
of formless silt.