A hundred year oak…now with faded auburn leaves.
Centuries of stone fences with homes long since gone.
The dogs unencumbered, free to explore a land unknown.
But still a muddied swimming hole is where they decided to roam.
We dodge dropping acorns from dismayed animals up above.
Deep in a forest untraveled,
I am reminded of that strawberry blonde child, sunfish and September early morning, in the plump sun.
As the branches sing above.
A noble thought to taking this as it were given…
To praise all the intricate notions we did not speak.
Timing, always fit to be tied.
there is not a reason for Mother Nature to lie.
It is contagious…how I fear the falling
Candor in blankets of white release.
It is distinctive how I run from failure.
there is no need for Mother to hold my hand.
Coming around again,
I will be behind a crooked bend.
So fortunate am I? I am so fortunate that I forget. Lucky enough to live in mostly wilderness. Lucky enough to forget each and every walk I take (which is 355 days a year) can have either little significance…or, all the importance in the world.
Stop…Ruth, breathe in through the nose…breathe out through the mouth. Enjoy one moment. One single, minute, slice of slowing down. Look up, look down, look within!
Look at every piece of damaged goods, or as I like to say, damaged beauty. It will offer new perspective on all ills and pains, I have.
Listen…to all that is not said! Listen with mouth shut and arms wide open!
It is a falsehood to believe we will ever be here, in this spot, again!
Bleak is the air that wrestles the sun.
A live virus that beholds no one.
Had I been placed here by my own accord?
Would I have forgiven the lack of warmth?
The ghost-like trees.
The moistened forever blight.
Frost covered illness and lack of ease.
How temperate wooden, woolly, sprites distract from the sensitive sway?
I watch as, freeze steals away from the morn.
Always winter and her fight.
I have tucked away the colored glasses for more than forty days…
and, forty nights.
Where there had once been fresh grass…now a pristine, glossy, cross.
A well intention granite bench…
bystander, where have you gone?
Does this mean…a universe of pipe dreams…are lost?
I look at my impression…and, a decade of dusty pipe dreams…
You had been there…quietly, in the in-between.
From a stoop made for one, I watch tourist town drudgery, through my own faults.
I have become a by-stander, as well.
Canary yellows with fitted foot. Army greens abided by loose fingered hosters..
Chaos in neon posters.
Ambient lights with traces of human clues.
Sometimes sadness set upon an ocean of deep blues.
Joesph Kildune, Toad Hall
From my everyday stoop.
Thinking of the stranger I never met…but felt I knew.
The understated cross and its forever stone pew.
Where is the by-stander…I never met…but felt I knew.