I know
all too well
the 
creak
and
wobble
of the return

Mornings
collect dust
of forgotten intentions
I run
my cracked
fingers
over 
the 
groove
worn
deep
by the memories
pained
by that awkward
pull
of hestitation
out of shape
struggles
slow
and 
stiff

Wind whips
through tree tops
grown tall 
since
winter's bare
all the colors
muted
bland
blending 
sullen to sky

NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo 2018 - Day 15