walking
stick
(wearing
myself
thin
enough
with
questions
to
slip unseen
past
velvet
folded
gates
into
the womb
of
a Goddess)
I
keep asking why
who
am I
where
am I going
why
am I
mouthing
questions
in
the fog
this
morning
what
do I mean
to
myself
let
alone you
in
the thousands
of
ever turning
pages
and poems
the
words usually form
shape,
rhymes or reasons
that
come with the turning
of
the seasons
within
and without
a
moment's notice
I
pause and wonder
as
I sit up
to
take stock
of
another dream
that
I want to deny myself
it
seems that while
my
red light is always on
I
can always find ways
to
keep my doors closed
and
myself locked inside
outside
the
damp matted
curl
of leaves
are
flattened and whispering
what
fluttered used to mean
long
shadowing the descent
from
mid-Summer's Lammas Moon
gypsy
thunder in the distance
calls
the mushrooms forth
fairy
rings around
astrological
gravity
and
the lush quiet
of
the mosses
widening
under the pines
shady
approach
of
deepening Autumn
down
the long lanes
and
tree lined roads
that
are covered
in
how memory scatters
another
Robert Frost farm
is
rejoicing the gentle hills
and
tucked lakes
that
feed into the far side
of
tomorrow
I
can smell
the
chimney roars
the
songs that bellow
everything
that burns
the
Harvest past time
they
sing for me
to
come and be
welcomed
home
to
stop wanting
an
explanation
for
what Love is
I
throw a few things
upon
my back
and
kick the leaves
as
I shuffle my feet
deepening
myself
into
the thought
that
beneath the snow
I
know Winter only kills
the
stuff that is supposed
to
die, like Sisyphus
and
foolish flowered
intent,
everything
that
no longer
wants
to cry
for
an answer
to
any reason
I still have
to ask why
EJR
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