Your voice,
Hoarse, crackled and thin,
From the still shadowed corner
Of a landscape, starving,
And touched by the end
Of a once great circle,
Now warped
And faded away from time.
.
Will you walk with me again?
Your voice,
Hoarse, crackled and thin,
From the still shadowed corner
Of a landscape, starving,
And touched by the end
Of a once great circle,
Now warped
And faded away from time.
.
Will you walk with me again?
The dense moments:
A perched and waiting infinity
like the slow approach
Of a December storm.
This will give way
To clusters of days
Grouping themselves into months and
somewhere listed in years and futility.
Some of these more relevant than others.
All this in hindsight, of course.
But all of them eventually get listed equally
Despite their distance from now,
And the patterns to deceive.
.
Maybe all these places and spaces are appropriately
Filed as leaves falling from trees,
As they play the light floating down,
Ghostly ballerinas of the wooded air.
Each one it’s own scratchy day
Wringing the counting out of us,
Collecting in the patches of light
And shadow.
.
Of course,
Back at the office,
all this started during the pragmatic era,
Which preceded the declining epoch,
Where the rusted pot of drought
Boiled dry, until the metal turned glowing blue
And this time of light appeared as some
Barefoot church-goer:
Enthralled and enthused,
Ready to shake, but still too worn and stiff
To let fall the remaining leaves.
But plays to a bad rhythm
A bad rhythm going down.
.
Again,
Some of this time might linger.
Mix.
Into the endless eddies of days
But is quickly lost
On the downhill slide.
.
One day, crazy boisterous
The next,
Of long slumber,
Or the deep haze
Cast across dry fields
And the aches fired by dust and wind.
.
Here the days slide with the light,
The rhythm of new times again.