A Pome a Day for a Year

Thin black 2D line separating horizons from ground;
a segmented sky. Clouds hanging,
daring to drop,
eyes wide, bulging like bags full
of dirty laundry while lungs fill and empty,
the pattern slow, steady, repetitive.

Metal zombie containers, holding crushed hopes,
underfoot and pushed away,
a box apart, a view disregarded, a task looms
and thought flies, dancing between the birds
floating heavenwards out of reach.

Tentative steps,
gradual inches of momentum
flitter and dodge and weave and avoid
while fingers full. Only a chase,
success is staying glued to that line,
until the weighted world sinks shoulders.