Not Much Became Much
by D.R. James

Mornings were blooming darker,
the shapes of moods
no less secret,

and missing any sunset mattered.
Friends came in the snow to see
the woods, the beach, the cabin,

how the old guy was doing, out now
on his ever-loving own–
even stayed for some conversation.

And I, newly fond of the day-by-day,
was considering reconsidering positive
thinking: the lean air was growing colder,

the incessant wind less insistent,
and the freezing dunes had begun to listen
like a home to write home about.



 

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