I sometimes think I don’t belong in this century.
I long for gardens filled with sunshine,
Children playing in the yard,
Baking bread on snowy days,
Knitting sweaters by
The fire burning on the hearth.
For simpler times

My todays are full of computer screens
Paperwork in an office
My garden sits untended full of plans that never bear fruit
My children play in other people’s yards
My snowy days are spent trying to keep up
with the ever mounting pile of travail on my desk.
I knit together financial reports
In the dark corner of my basement,
next to a cold concrete wall
This isn’t the life I had in mind.