Done

The day is done.
The last of the light falls off the quarry,
soft and bright, an autumn sun.

You have spent too much time in the bright light
of summer, too much time in heat,
and it has left you worn,

for the bright light is not your natural habitat.
No, for you, the quiet places refresh your soul.
and while you can shine with the brightest

you are aware when your wick is nearly done,
burned down to a mere nub.
Most days, you catch it in time,

But some, like today, you live in that flame
until there is little more left
than a sputter.

About this poem

I am an introvert in a world of extroverts. Some days that’s fun. Others….

Tom