I stagger around in my thoughts…as if an open book
as if a locked attic with no key and skeletons that wish to be free
My panic sets in whether day or night
In small snippets I remember the daffodils, the farmland, the rebirth, the light
In small, form fit spaces…this is where the head and the heart fight
I assume nature is alarmed, possibly having already panicked years before
Perhaps, the reason for a locked attic door
A frightening thought during the midnight hour…
Something so beautiful as you, crying in desperation.
How can beauty be hit so hard?
Where had my fevered mind traveled?
The woods of ash and hemlock surround the bed dipped by morning dew…
made black and blue.
My illicit youth became a blackened mirror to the truth…
Fevered pitch ran from the pines asking not ‘what if.’
But is left to do.
At some point,
promises given out…weigh greater than…the ones kept.
The heft of diminishing worlds…overwhelm delicate scales of time.
An eternity of missteps…lost in tall pines.
Stockpiles of contrasting beauty…yet, no apparent sign.
I frequent my primitive vows.
Though they have snapped and rotted…
Cracked and shattered…
Receding over the years.
Bare and illegible, I must own my incomplete ‘why’!
Seek it out under azure skies.
For without ownership,
I am but a false warrior.
With a fistful of lies.
My haven in the woods.
Mirth and musk. Dirt and stuff. Nevermore, do I shine. When… under the weather. Skin so soft…as… flourishing… as well oiled leather.
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.