2009-10-03 Poetry, The Sun Hangs Low

The sun hangs low,
throwing warm streaks of brightness
across the green grass under the trees in the park.
There is, perhaps, only an hour or two left
Before the sun sets
Leaving us in darkness.
I stand on the train
As it carries me away
And I think of you.
I’m thinking of the probability,
Since you’re struggling
With the side-effects of medication
And many tumors,
That I may never see you again.
The sun hangs low.
There is so little time left.
But then, there never was.