I walk a foreboding country lane, as a conscientious observer.
The mystery of souls looming ever so close.
Behind moss capped tree trunks
snuggled beneath peeled birch bark.
A party of three, the dogs and I.
Interpret nothing…only stillness catches our eye.
To capture moments such as these; an attempt to recall a dream.
And, though the harvest is sweet…
to come back daily, my only sense of relief.
I am a handmade coward not fighting hard enough.
Not loving enough.
A slow setting sun…fanciful and whimsical.
My wrists…withered branches.
My dignity, a bad dream pretending to set things right.
In the bosom of a heavy load, how do the complacent go on?
Earth tumbles below and heaven cries from above.
I turn back toward home…sadness to be shared with love.
To join the living is as perilous as, a bob-house on a newly frozen lake.
As menacing as…a stranger in the shade of a lonely forest.
Do I dare test what I see?
Do I challenge myself to believe?
Sounds of my dysfunction…pales in the silence of snow drifting.
A prayer for forgiveness grows silent among the echo found in seclusion.
Among the shuffling timbers, I hear more than what is apparent.
Stumbling around my humanness…I grasp the acoustics of letting go.
Should there always be a insult from me to here?
Insulating quiet seems so rare.