Weary

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There are days I wake up weary
weary of the news
of the weather
of my mind
of my body with
its endless demands
of people speaking so fast
weary of war, of bombast
and pretense.

Emptiness is the absence
of bullshit our guru told us.

How did he know all those
many years ago how much of it would
keep piling up higher and higher
on cell phones and
emails
and twitter and
tinder?

Endless streams of
deception.

Did he know how dark
the darkness would get?
How crazy the chaos
exploding around us?

On those weary mornings
even the sparrows racing
each other from
tree to tree
bring me no joy.

But the dog still needs
her walk
the milk left out too long
goes sour
the trash bin blows over
in a gust of wind.

In spring
a pale yellow crocus
still pushes through
its icing of snow.

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