Sinewy and frayed by bitter gusts

it stalks the fringes and invades 

by peering through a pane that reveals

a melancholy stare at its turbulence.

Over a missing headboard and through a curtainless window

the mad bough sways countless tendrils

against a gray January sky that hides the time of day.

Quiet and still not wanting to disturb

I sneer at the morphing maze

that hides where it begins and ends,

a simulacrum mocking my deficiencies.  

Instinctively I know and dread Sundays

with its guilt-ridden church bell lure

for there is something in that ringing

“makes a body feel alone.”

When did I begin to feel deficient, lacking, or inadequate?