Servitude is not the calling.
would be to no avail.
The pernicious pig,
the muddied mare,
the calamitous cow.
Free of strings.
And, monetary weights.
Out to pasture by virtue of enlightenment.
Only sullied by contentment.
You see, here, along the northeast…
a mile is forever on a country lane
In the arm’s of nature, Mother’s face, prolongs my existence.
Her silhouette disheveled, fetal and beyond my wandering.
I felt that one step forward and one step back only released my defects.
This lonely, disparaged pond and her trail praises those that are rampant, quiet and egotistically…frail.
So, I come back down (always) a downy lane.
Bluster and sustain-ably sane.
Still a history still….not so plain.
Winter is clattering at the back door.
Long worrisome hours of night falling on the skin.
Love is not lost.
Up on geriatric pallets.
Made of used nails and scraps of tin.
The world we know,
inhabited with dark necessities.
A truthful love.
A truthful north.
Knows no pity.
I have wept for some doors that have been shut.
For the remembrance of circling crows, the slightly ajar iron gates that house the long ago, dead.
For the remembrance of four legged siblings…true to themselves and unabashed. I relive their memory…everyday.
Oh, the wonder years, living among loose chickens and lazy llamas.
The dead end dirty and dusky roads that had lay before me.
Those lanes with promise of green, glistering, fields.
I have wept for the Shakers, the dance, the waves of neighbors passing, as time grows old.
The weight of desperation to leave…an elephant’s foot.
A heft of which… a granite wall…immortal, lifeless.
Little runaway, I tried, I tried.
Ravaged by midday hours…late twilight had been my hour.
I tumble as a result of…my own fall.
Darting, dodging, I could only take the route practiced and untamed.
Stuffed animals in the trees…dangling echos…all about.
Deep in a true vault of pine and birch…both shedding onto my perch.
I tumbled…as a result of my own fall.