Friday, June 28, 2013

To Be Remembered Walking

Walking before the sun burns away the morning fog. Much that is broken only seems to be. Numinous greens, plash of the heron flapping wisely away.

Say what you mean: and only what you mean. And say it. The man without shoes consider yet more miles and they are not easy ones.

Robin song is urgent, yet the small bellows of their wings on the air - when they pass within feet of you - is more urgent yet. Bull thistle, honeysuckle. I spook yet another milk snake off the stairs and it whispers as it goes.

What is the world without pronouns? Language reflects, is what we forget, and thus take its fluidity for direction. She meets him later and I watch.

In dreams, much goes undone. We wake and boil day-old coffee and carry it to the backyard where the roses remind us of the ones we haven't touched. Chickadees and grackles, ash-colored junco's.

I do not think what I write is exactly poetry but it is not exactly prose either! The bridge across the river failed years ago and so most of us now wade to the far side. In the distance, the last owl mutters as it sinks into what passes for sleep, well-earned or otherwise.

Buttercups remind me of happy kisses. Old pastures beg to be slept in, as old psalms plead to be remembered.

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