Weary

I know why my mother moved so slowly,
why my father stayed down when he sat
there is a weary ache in my bones
which sleep fails to appease
it's the hollow of something missing:
youth, or hope, or time
I sometimes feel I am becoming ghostly
before my body has even gone
I sometimes feel my spinning stop
the fertile energy which rotates this space
settles at my side
she relocates her turn into a yearn to
Remember?
Remember.