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.
Crows have picked all sanctimonious bones from my husk, so over the hill
Doubts hurl about in the frenzy of drafty April’s afternoon
Theologians with their vestments of velvet billowing from the tundras
could never let their fibers flounder in the stance of this jubilee
This epiphany defies sectarian gospel
So much so, any shallow impetus…neither could not or would not, draw a rebirth improvisation from established misery
A sense of victory weaves as poetic vines in circles around the lies once fed
The earth does not grow beneath a prostrate bed
The field at the farm, a chorus of ducks.
The beginning to an end, I trust.
Thick, hardened, mantles, loosing their thrust.
Pulling back the pages, a winter’s scene beginning to rust.
Perplexing, how it is done, shut off one light.
And, a new season has begun.
Brown, no longer, brown…it is everything.
The war of winter and wind pulsing through wooded veins,
Whispers of curses among all that is not public domain.
But in the end, unlike no breathable battle in history.
An auspicious transference of power…ends with only beauty.