Fatigue makes
a slow descent,

a heavy shroud
that blankets
the orbs –

overstuff storerooms
with bursting crop,

as window blinds
hang, heavy
and swollen,

the futile promise
of 10 am’s
forty winks…

I watch others
hopelessly succumb
after lunch, while

brave troopers
(if only they knew!)
stubbornly desist;

but the reverse
happens (curses!)
in the night,

where counting
bags of wool
from the morn’s harvest

only prolongs
the fuzziness
and despair,

but brings nothing more –

© Zelda Reville

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