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.