Grasping at Straws

Loud enough to be heard when a pin drops.

Tangled moments of clarity.

Ancient strife and last century poets…

Have not held the key.

I, too, have been known to grasp at straws.

That I do not hold.

As I wheeze through another breath.

And, hobble towards indecision.

I am distracted by a presence of the unknown.

Half stacked cords of rotted wood.

Raspberry bushes…too ripe to pick.

Fanning ferns, chaotic root and birch…

Dancing in and out of the shadows of life.

Then a remembrance…

A poet’s trail is ancient strife.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.