What had been wrong with me?
Granite stone with names from different turns.
So many questions…under a rustic line of pine trees.
Roads winding in and around crevices amassed from weather, oh so turbulent.
Had the journey into deep, gathering country been wrong.
Could he have been just a teacher…giving lessons in distaste.
Offering long, forbidding ways in which love can go to waste.
Year upon rural year…the distance fought never remains.
Climate change offered no manner in which to stay the same.
Early in the frozen season, the weather is oppressive like my father’s impatient love.
Have not seen the sun in so long, a warming blood’s moon has replace shine’s pride.
I took out a plastic red rose, all at once, I felt more entitled…
And, down where the icy waters of Three River’s meet,
I placated my angst…bathed in organic retreat.
Harold used to give me…used light bulbs
swaddled with a fistful of Fig Newtons.
He was not half bad
He was not half good
Brutal were his words of love.
His not so slight of hand…caustic like cord wood.
A place for everything and everything in it’s place.
Harold gave me a broken brass lamp.
And, a mask to keep germs closer to our face.
I would steal time if I could.
However, time would come back broken…
Even more misunderstood.
My father bought time.
And, put it in his pocket.
Just like the Rail-man who shared a cot with father’s mother.
And, later in life…
Time took that handed down watch…
And, removed it from her lover.
Crazier than making every second count.
Father time will pass.
With diamonds littered in gold…upon his wrist.
And, the years that have passed will remain ill controlled.
Yet, there will be no final kiss.
I have learned only insanity from grasping at the Old Man’s passages.
that a stop watch that cannot be fixed.
From time to time.
With a bit of borrowed daylight.
Paid for with someone else’s savings.
All leading to a bed of malicious habits kept together by lonely cravings.