March 20, 2020

• broken

   

  

  sometimes i think i hear whispers
  in the woodpile, voices from far
  mysterious forests where one long
  beam of light shines on a patch of green moss.

  sometimes tree-ghosts disguised as dogs
  come and lick the bowls i leave on the
  back porch. the wind spins me from
  this ordinary world until i am almost
  broken with regret, split

  like this pile of green hickory and oak.
  in the dark, a vision of rustling leaves chases
  me into dreams, pursued by splintered voices
  that moan in the pitch dark night,

  then lift and become blue smoke

  • 8:03 am
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