on the hill in the distance home waits
but for now I work within a wood
where most of my problems are my own
and these too will vanish soon like frost
melting from the bare braches about me
#
the sun climbs higher into a clearer sky
the once warming of work now sweats
so I break for water not quite noticing
the quick cry and flutter of nearby birds
singing their sharp pips after seed
#
if I pause to watch each glisten of light
I will not compete the task set before me
and discover what every dead man knows
the world will wobble on from winter
until spring with or without me along
(from a work in progress: “Arcana,” VIIIWands, December 30,2013)
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