How far down can I be?
From the life that swallowed me.
Wandering down the same faded lanes.
Looking for mythical messages…
In this, the most old-fashioned of New Hampshire towns.
Where antiquated becomes motionless.
Laying about without a sound!
I would put a name to the provocation.
But am not quite sure how.
It is an unequivocal ride.
That will not end.
Not end until a name is pressed in stone.
It is the longest of journey’s home.
A worker among thieves.
Fanning out among the glamour trees.
To behold the fern.
Is to be exact.
Feeling its fingers…
Nimble in the in between.
Braiding the sun.
assaying in and out of life.
As if, fulfilling the gaps of a ponderous dream.
I cannot say why I find the fern so fascinating.
It seems miraculous.
Always kneeling, praying, waiting.
The air is ripe with mustard, sweet and sour.
Leaflet of grass…
Drenched in clove.
Green onion accosting the gravel road…
And, heaven’s above.
No trails to speak.
Just an agreeable, steered, waif.
A four-legged creature…
Somewhat close to the ground.
Lumber some, oh the glory of!
In and out of sight…without a sound.
I do not want to think of him.
The brother I once knew.
Born an old man.
He had been more than my father could stand.
Larger than a vat of well stirred anger.
Hope never surrounded him.
Love, seemed a danger.
alive…but his breathing unwell.
I think of him in a past tense.
Like a folklore I should tell.
On a mid summer’s day.
Rare, relinquished thoughts.
Five second memories of my brother.
An abandoned lot that time forgot.