Thursday, January 24, 2013

One who is now gone.

A freeze came in the summer this year. Killed my beets and browned the ground. And who (me) wears boots in the summer? Those unlike me, not only in spongy and dangling flesh, but in prickley mind, flocked to the south where it is colder. And now in the winter that changes our clothes and our bed times, I left my boots aligned with the square design of a rug in a room to the left of the fireplace. A boot worn but not weary. Just a boot afterall. Quiet as you. Patient as you and your silver hairs waiting for the rest to arrive. And while I opened my palm against the tongue like skin of your solid side, makes the sound of a brush. Gesso on canvas. Fear came in the same door I did. And sniffed at my boots and knew I had been walking in hope. and went out stalking at the fence to see where I had gone. A hunting ground not yet discovered.

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