the
coldest rain
came
in may
leaving
a bed of loose pine needles
as
witness
the
nutrients bleached out
a
trio of white pine
leading
toward the valley
the
road out of purgatory
is just a cold river
if
you feel the pinch
you
know you're still breathing
somewhere
in between
beatitude
practice
and
a remembrance of youth
finally
breaking free
walking
'til the soles become
endless
practicing souls that have
nothing
in common 'cept
their
ability to find
or
define
your
purpose
--- e b bortz
No comments:
Post a Comment