We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us. Even while the earth sleeps we travel. We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are scattered.
‘Heed the screams.’
Flee the fall.
The spindly woods, tell all.
At first sight,
I had been blissfully, unaware.
Then within a moment’s hesitation,
one lone oak became a pair.
For miles, the blistering winds had admonished an earthy speech…
in my muffled ear.
I only listened for the cautions they longed for me to hear.
All surrounding sounds and, alike,
While my wishes were the wind-swept tress…
The ground rumbled…stay humble.
Wall to wall.
Rushing waters so fast they imply a stall.
Winter’s root seems to have loosened her pace.
There is abrasion to her typically, smooth surface.
Everyday, I pass by a downy path.
I can only assume it leads to a dark tundra of creations unknown.
the wild-birds echo a refrain to their song…
I am in their home.
Puffs of once frozen,
Have turned into slushy, sodden, remains of the days.
The earth has bared all the select, segments, she will.
I turn a footprint towards the path of no end.
Smiling to myself,
this courage is just pretend.
Servitude is not the calling.
would be to no avail.
The pernicious pig,
the muddied mare,
the calamitous cow.
Free of strings.
And, monetary weights.
Out to pasture by virtue of enlightenment.
Only sullied by contentment.
The Winters are so short—
I’m hardly justified
In sending all the Birds away—
And moving into Pod—
Myself—for scarcely settled—
The Phoebes have begun—
And then—it’s time to strike my Tent—
And open House—again—
It’s mostly, interruptions—
My Summer—is despoiled—
Because there was a Winter—once—
And al the Cattle—starved—
And so there was a Deluge—
And swept the World away—
But Ararat’s a Legend—now—
And no one credits Noah—