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.)
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.