Matins

How do you fare, old bosom soul,  
Now that you have outworn hate  
And sex and drugs and rock and roll  
Are not the end all be all fate?  
Now you marvel at winter air  
Which tortures all the leafless twigs  
In the February nightmare  
Of streetlight shadow midnight sprigs.  
You sigh with the wee hour sky  
And admire the housecat's prowl  
Or with an almanac comply,  
If the weather is not foul,  
To spy a distant orb or two  
And mark it's progress in the night  
Where gravity is not a glue  
Preventing gods from taking flight  
To pluck a piece of glory there  
That goes unseen in summer's glare!