Years of Moments

I trace the ivy ‘tween the stony edges

From its home up to the place it ends

There’s a bucket there for drawing water

A heather grave of rusty presidents 

…

Nothing’s well – this home is filled with felled things

Life and death are blended tonic spirit

I’m thinking how the forest’s flesh has held me

The mud upon my skin – I press and smear it

…

The forest floor is kind and loving parents

It guides me, helps me, shapes me to be free

It’s unafraid of change or seasons failing 

It’s wasting years of moments knowing me

…

I’m bloodied by the wind of these surroundings

Entranced by sudden shocks of peace and fight

Forewarned of hectic, limbic symbiosis 

And saddened by the cues of pending night

…

I have to leave, go back to where I came from 

And send the whole back to disparate parts

I let my hand fall back upon the well wall 

And trace the ivy back to where it starts