Sometimes in the dusky moments,
when everything slows down
I try and breath the turn.
Sipping on memories of deeper
days and unknown trail
the turn comes back to me
and we share an ill-timed
tryst in the humid stink of
seasons dense with green
Inside the quiet of the turn
there is a sunrise draping,
a bird call
a branch laden with the weight
of the sky.
To go back to the turn,
I have to wait for the hard ground,
but to be in the turn,
I must only turn around
"Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. The winds will blow their freshness into you, and the storms, their energy. Your cares and tensions will drop away like the leaves of Autumn." --John Muir
"welcome to the hacienda, asshole." --s.p.c.
Bookmarks