Growing Out Of It (Poetry)

I’d have thought by now
there would be certain
encouraging signs
that I had made some
progress — moved forward

in my thinking and
left the worst behind —
shucked off mourning’s garb
those morbid weeds I’d
draped forbidingly

enforced their drabness
on every outlook.
Instead of being
done with all of this
I cling to old clothes

persist in dull and
ever-pointless shows
of grieving for what’s
past and cannot be
retrieved — years plod by

hearts and bodies change
aging limps its way ...

Winter’s gloom transformed
by sun’s suggestion —
dress in red today