Hot are the embers to my open eyes
Always as I await
grounded turkey’s looking for flight
fist-ed fiddle-heads and ferns, as they unleash their plight.
I await for life to cross Shingle Camp Road.
Even though, infinitely, critical of how I am smitten…
Attempts are plain…
the beaver’s chew
the No-See- Um’s bleak journey for flowers…old and new.
I abide the noisy splendor of live free or die.
All creatures, great and small, renegades when movement collides.
Dearest, here we are back…doing what we used to do.
The promise of calendar days just a prosthetic gesture.
A sub-conscience decision to blur the vision.
Darling, I know something about love.
It isn’t dressed in hazard red.
It isn’t laced in road closed puns.
Yes, dear, I too, know something about love.
There is a dusting on the road…
a Sunday drive to nowhere I am told.
Dearest, you are the predator to this unseasonably cold censorship.
But than again, you’ve always gave me the inclement slip.