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.
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.