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The clapping hollow and harrowed noise of hiking boot on a hardwood floor
The mystery surrounding a Dixie cup of corn liquor.
The lanky old man
The slamming of the improperly fit…screen door.
After all hadn’t it been her way to travel down paths unknown
Granite faces
Fallen ways of cobblestone.
So what to make of a diminished thing
Long after the spring.
So what to make of a young writer’s dilemma.
My handler submerged in her own poetic plight.
Filled with daydreams
A self-imposed creator’s right.
Year after year
I have gone to what I know to be best.
Frost farms
a meandering Raven’s charm.
Indeed my only play had been what I found.
Chasing critiques that made little sound
Bending the white off the birch
Reflecting the dog’s menace to the earth.
Those days I ran on the ray’s of innocence
as though, sunlight glow no more.
A purposeful forgotten promise
fireside with my father at the cabin door.
So, again the basking of clove and lavender has begun
Will the ache ever be done.
Yes, I took a road less traveled
And, I shall not forget all I have chance to marvel.
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