Veins

I study the traffic

Of the deep purple blue veins

Mapping out

Under the pale

Winter white skin

Of my left arm.

It is one of the first

Beautiful days of Spring

And I am depressed.

She

Today

Is the reason

That I’m looking at these

Bright raised veins

I’m sure.

They are there.

She is there too.

The fragile veins by my wrist

Or the denser ones inside

Of my elbow.

I’ve known each one of them

Closely.

I am cleaning

Because I don’t know

What else to do.

These veins

Appeared

More significant today

In the midday sun

Breaking in through the windows

Of my daughter’s dusty room.

They are strong veins.

Torquing, rigid, sturdy veins

Life flowing through tunnels.

The veins that I would seek

Quickly in the past...

I observe with thought

And slow contemplation.

They are shadows

But a small piece of my history

And I am humbled by them.

The simple fact that I would even stop

To consider them

Is somewhat compelling.

But I move on.

I move forward.

I turn on the vacuum

And start sucking up

The things that are caving in

Around me.