I have written off that which is not known
Crashing into the earth…secrets come with the winds.
Dismissive pine needles of discourse…go, flow, go.
I choke on the ashes of the earth.
Soiled and turned and forgotten…
what is it that leave the belly of the beast that grows, grows and grows?
Perhaps a bitter forested pill which is embedded in plumes of snow.
To breathe or not to breathe.
The swaying maple, birch and alike,
And, I sit singing their refrain.
With moments such like a desolate snowflake, hanging from the sky.
I walk my daily assertions and provoke, why?
The cold and the lucidity encapulates me.
I cannot always get there from here.
Yet, I am still open wide and apathetically, naturally, translucent to what nature offers me.
Traveling left of false roads…lifting a heavy foot, I am not too old.
Too old to bear the fruit of red berry, solo on downtrodden branch.
Further, into unmarked mystery, for bleak seconds, I find my second chance.
Country affirmations leave a stone heart vivid with darkened greens and snow-blind white.
Country proclamations steal my sideways glance.
Not all that is meant to be…
Not all is within sight.
Laughing pine hold no sentiment for the fallen leaves.
If devotion were a winter gust…what would be just for us.
If rambling had been my disdain…no echo in refrain.
Yet, stolen from frozen time,
to lose resentment allots to listening in the dark to discarded rain and threaded foot and her traffic.
Could one become more than what red berry in powdered snow…
be my memories…distant and low?
No matter the distance in a country mile…I am nothing more than faded ilk…
propaganda with a manufactured smile.
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.
Clover still grows during this…the first hard frost.
I have always envied this walk…to clear the air.
Drudgery and all its beauty strewn about in wild fanfare.
The perpetual futility of earth’s aching limbs.
A healthy canvas for the unknowing eye, is all one will see.
Progress and perfection…languishing in antiquity.