A Whistle from the Birch

Ominous, as the whistle through the birch.

Watchful eyes.

Vacant as the day, they left this earth.

A distant voice.

Peaceful with the way we hurt.

Primitive in an organic manner.

Crowded blank, planks.

Rotten with the insight.

A casualty has come to stay.

Isolated, during early morning…

When the sun rests behind shade.

A time…

When the wind calls her name.

Born to a similar batch of thorns.

I came in search of sameness.

But from a different point of view.

Deep in the knotted, hollow…

My attempt at name calling, a bit askew.

The small town in me…

Brought distant sounds closer.

Rainfall…

scouring me of victim’s debris.

A voice…

echoing.

Watching…

knocking on wood.

In the cleanse of a passing shower.

A calling from above,

‘I would let go…If I only could.’

 

 

Birch Bones

birch bones 2 birch bones 3

Birch Bones

Scattered birch bones about the way…

Classics bellow below.

Sometimes I talk to the angels.

They appear as dust on the rays of the sun.

‘No, no, sweetheart your pilgrimage has just begun.’

And, though, my footing grabs at my destiny…

Strangely, strange, it is the wilderness that sets my spirit free.

A dare, one would say.

As the winged mystique call those that wander to the way…

And, though the hike runs on empty.

The serenity symphony tempts and provokes me.

The eyes of forest know…

I do not see all there is…

to see…

all there is to know.

birch bones 1