The severance of a nerve
The leftover scars
Have I ‘arrived too late?’
Must ache be my fate?
There is a static to the air…while I put aware my cares.
A great sense of having visited a temple built without brick.
A presence of ‘having heart’ in the changing of colors that loom ahead.
Watching as the fields grow…and, wane.
I hear nothing from the sheltering woods…they do not complain.