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.
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.
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.
In Mother’s Nature…
She keeps me gentle
She keeps me sapient
She keeps me legitimate
She keeps me with timeless tests
She keeps me with flesh
She keeps me with dignity
She keeps me shady
She keeps me with chemistry
She keeps me with fragile, breakable reverie
She keeps me
And, I am kept.
…a most indulgent mother, has placed her best gifts out in the open, like air, water and the earth itself; vain and unprofitable things she has hidden away in remote places.
I am looking for a barefoot intervention but the snow between my toes tells me,
that is not how this story goes.
To dream of warmth only makes me weak.
Screaming tree tops warn,
“This life is not for the meek.
Within the northern confinement…little room for shadows of doubt.”