I am, as one might expect, in my den still trying
                        to gauge
the parameters of my universe, failing, as usual,
                         in the best
way I can, since, well, the blinds of my windows
                        are
closing more rapidly than before, even though
                        I want

to know, despite my having been instructed,
                        in no
uncertain terms, to cease my forever queries,
                        to work
at accepting the inevitable, to ease off, enjoy,
                        even
relish those rare moments of earned delight
                        while

I strain, trying to measure chunks of skylight
                        nearly,
 but not completely, hidden by the rapacious
                        limbs
of an oak tree I thought wrongly responsible
                         for my
once hearty Bermuda dying in its shade, only
                        to learn

I was the agent of its death, another instance,
                        of my
still knowing I am able to learn, regardless
                        of the
the boundaries of my irrational thoughts,
                        my often
rational behavior, the long links of sorrow
                        binding them.