Yes

 Sometimes the poems come quickly, all of a piece.  This is one of those.

Anxiety rises and sets

like the sun.

Every day passes

like the last.

Sheltered, walking,

eating fine meals and

drinking bitter dregs.

We hold the tension,

pulled and pulling

this way and that.

Calm and safe

in an unsafe calm.

Holding on 

to a Christmas tree

past the time it should be 

tossed to the curb.

This is how we live

in the time of old age,

in the weary age,

in the world-beaten age.

This is what we have -

our hands full of salt,

our nights full of dark dreams,

our lives still shining with light.