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.
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