postpoempostpoempostpoempostpoempostpoem...

in the old oak 
it was carved...


"where were we..."


in the lake marshes the wind curled a howl rain back at us, 
the air was driven with stubborn and did not wish to be 
carried as if for drink from a well, refreshing like, no, it 
liked spiked tided tied mooring tight...
what night might often beckon us 
to steal into when we fear something 
in the dark comes tagging along 
in all our searches 
for riches and legend...

EJR ©