This fragility of being is solely mine…
Much like a mistakenly crisp late spring, piney waft.
On which, so much feeds.
Or, purposely perpetuated wants…overcoming needs.
I can set my sights on a higher power…
that seems often higher and higher.
And, soon out of my reach.
Conversely, I can assume the best of intentions from quiet savagery…
the artful being that grows above and below the seed.
When chasing a memory, I concede!
A wanting for everything.
Everything it should have been.
If I amble after a flashback…too far
It will surely run me back.
A tackle-box of strangeness from the past.
wheels in motion
fresh cut grass
the fur lined evergreens reeking of purity.
Inflamed by all that is good to remain.
I chase the postcard distance for a sense of glory.
Dignity, however, has only one expression among the tall peaks.
Nothing to glamorize.
No memory is free.
I did not see a rushing tide to my epiphany.
Just a babbling brook.
A natural lodging place.
Where I skinned my heart…
skinned my knees.
Even then the wonderment of
‘who owns these woods…I think I will never know.’
A circle confined by pine.
Flashlights spinning a victor’s kiss…
and, true, it would never find.
A masquerade of cowboy and Indian by the poetry palace…
Barefoot, carefree and calloused.
Mystery grew where the wild things go.
Or, so the ghostly, ghastly, tale would be told.
a lazy women’s lackluster carving of wood.
A dated damsels attempt at,
would have, should have, still could.
All thoughtful handmade devices…designed up in the notch.
Gentle moments flashing back to my childhood playground.
Across from Mr. Frost.