woods quiet
ground groaning
hard, cold
beneath my feet

echoing the heavy burden
I’ve become

trees bent
wind wrestling
can’t hold much
like words or seeds

nothing but outlines remain

lips move
hands pressing
taken, blessed
disappearing need

carrying the illusion of time
we come

He came to me
in a dusty, languid stare
and he grunted approval,
menacing and soothing
all at once.

I could not read
his expression-
it could have been both
want and hate –
but his soft thoughts
encased in hard words
melted something inside.

I am happy just to watch,
whether he moves toward or away from me,
as if he is a sun
and I am just glad
for a little warmth.

This is a morning,
new but much the same
as so many others
rich with thick syrup
on beautiful waffles.
This is a burnt sunrise
taken with hot tea
held in hands like prayer.
This is a wish for touch
lost in days zooming by
in a haze of checking clocks.
This is a morning,
meant to be forgotten
as so many others
rich with daydreams
of adventures.

The shortest season
was one of guileless joy.
Then came a stretch
of paddling through-
I was a workhorse.
Now is the season
of waiting-
there’s fear of being irrelevant
in a fast-approaching end.

Shuffling through late snow,
disheveled and dusty
after a day’s traffic,
humming to myself
a tune of moving on
from where I don’t belong
– which strikes me as funny
because I’m always moving
since I belong nowhere,
a stranger returns my smile
which is about all I can hope for.