It hasn’t felt any good in the woods
lately. The hole has widened
without adequate tending; my spirit
is in a bog, staring up at me,
wondering when the hell I’ll shed the
pack of worries and terrible fantasies
I carry. It’s getting darker out there, in here,
but dawn is its own riddle, with hope
a crutch when there’s no other way.
I connect with sleet as I walk.
Wildlife is fleeting, two or four feet or wing.
The rain is like me, cycling down
into the ground and back up to a cloudy
embrace before falling again, cold
inside a grey sky.
It’s been an aimless wander, direction
erratic, from elements of joy abandoned.
I stop sometimes to pick up fallen leaves.
The Word Rummager 