No way to know these woods well, to assume, they are my friends.

No way to examine sacrificed buildings,

to know if they have a hand to lend.

≥

While routine holds fast to my wandering eye.

The purist in me believes, it is my love for recanted beauty that will get me by.

≥

Long lasting and languid, as a lover’s kiss.

A slumbering, lumbering, shine.

Such as coffee, in my morning cup.

So, what of devotion offering a look up?

≥

Freedom of thought.

Offerings mature in shredded leaf.

Matted frost prints, two feet, several precious paws.

Hints of frankincense from a misguided thaw.

≥

There is no ambiguity between the rock and dust that is chilled in a worn path.

The floating heavens did not force my hand.

It is but grace that brought me here.

It is with grace I hope to hold that affinity dear.