Heaving up the trashed and torn roots

right here next to the old gallows pole hill




Dig inside my soil.




Every glance is taken like a last solidified picture;


Released with the dew-drops in a morning haze.


Autumn’s shrouded leaves flicker.




(Daylight in its rising counts itself as old annual rings

finding me in the uncertain emptied; filled with real need.)




Time continues




To willful use for the eye

meets the entrance by the edge of the woods

where soaking wet leave mounds glimmer


from the same dawn to dawn enclosed


in the greyed trees, the bluish skies

watched and awaited; Time continues.














(Juniper bushes, which stood on the slopes

treads on the longed for forest grounds

up the duskily pine-needle filled paths.)




Feel the presence.




Harshly appears the cold ways

denying cloud covered days,

which felted all my time here.




The wind hisses bodefully.





(Out-witted as an autumn-adorned branch

taken down with the now icing night-wind.)






Hear me clearly; Time continues.


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