Sometimes, I wonder too much…if I wonder too much. Live life within a dream. Or, at least, a daydream.
How lucky am I? To look up, as well as, down.
As if my grievance with nature is that of anxious inspiration.
As if these walks were cheap snippets of temptation.
“You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.”
― Edgar Allan Poe
In the midst of thunderous gale.
A noose is loosened.
Dislodged from a ceiling.
Where the lead is chipping and peeling.
Stones, previously marked with similar name.
A pastime of clientele hanging on shame.
The obliged have always wondered.
Can you cremate pain?
Thus, hold onto dignified days,
and their remains.
A participant of curiosity’s oddity.
I, too, have queried…
What remains of the day?
All the protocol that stands in the way.
‘Heed the screams.’
Flee the fall.
The spindly woods, tell all.
At first sight,
I had been blissfully, unaware.
Then within a moment’s hesitation,
one lone oak became a pair.
For miles, the blistering winds had admonished an earthy speech…
in my muffled ear.
I only listened for the cautions they longed for me to hear.
All surrounding sounds and, alike,
While my wishes were the wind-swept tress…
The ground rumbled…stay humble.
Sifting thru the rust and the budding weeds.
This is the place to be when wonder begins to seed.
Rummaging, romping, romantics of the forest.
Decadent in their delivery.
Seeking clustered acorns
spurs of last year’s wood.
Never any thought to…rest assured.
Organic manner of giving the land a manicure.
Wall to wall.
Rushing waters so fast they imply a stall.
Winter’s root seems to have loosened her pace.
There is abrasion to her typically, smooth surface.
Everyday, I pass by a downy path.
I can only assume it leads to a dark tundra of creations unknown.
the wild-birds echo a refrain to their song…
I am in their home.
Puffs of once frozen,
Have turned into slushy, sodden, remains of the days.
The earth has bared all the select, segments, she will.
I turn a footprint towards the path of no end.
Smiling to myself,
this courage is just pretend.