Autumn Tree

Even if the sky were mediocre it would be more chivalrous than I.

Me, the gatherer of plastic goods…

the collector of false idols.

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My well traveled gifts are malignant.

But the clumping and crinkling of an autumn tree requires the best of me.

There in the rolling, ripples of a Pemigewasset river, a narrative to be retrieved.

Here in a forlorn field of dreams…a mystery.

Set against a leaning, lecturing oak…only intrigue.

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Sounds…Ever…Green

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there is a silver living to the white noise of a forest

a unique manner that pulls static from air

tender, invisible touches…slowing a harried way

I could stand in the ever green of nothingness…

not knowing if sound or sight has gone or stayed

how rare it is to take notice of the peace?

and, if I were to take my weathered hand to scoop ease away…

pocket the quiet grace for another kind of sway?

brooding crickets, settling leather tree trunks…

could seek refuge in the silence

all respite would fall from compliance…

leaving no room for another day

Staring Down Winter

On and on, a breeze.

Endlessly, the rain.imageedit_60_6920751381

Yet, no place leftover.

That would keep the sane.

With a hush blowing in the winds.

And, late clover, for all cares.

A shadow of far off distances.

And, the knowledge of winter’s stare.

Not for the Taking

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Faintly, laying about.

Without care.

No needs for what is here…

Nor,

what is there…

I persevere these thoughts…

When utmost alone.

A shelter in place…

Daily adding new aesthetics to my considerate home.

No running…

To and fro.

Focus is upon lazily greeting budding mushrooms.

Earthy oak.

And,

frothy flowers.

Lovely is the taste…

So sweet.

With a bit of bitter.

Never sour.imageedit_189_2047226976

Granite Labyrinth

Rummaging early.

There had never been a cave to hide my heart.

As the strings pulled…

Auspicious had been the woods, the hearth…

The mangled weeded twine beneath my bare-feet…

Had been only make-believe.

An exclusive story for my yearned for retreat.

With a long, last.

A dog, a butterfly.

A road that leads me nowhere.

Roots that lent a sturdy tie.

Slander can only arise from my perched lips.

Though a rail leads the transient way.

Visions of grandeur descend atop granite steps.

No longer does the travel need scornful say.