Wind lashes tree, leaves scatter, whipped up and around the corner
Branches fighting back, shaking fists out loud
Winter wheat too soon pushing through dry soil, making spring illusions early
The sun, fearful of exposure, running for its life low and south
Sometimes remembering July and August
Just seconds away from the abyss 

I hate Fall

Once there was a wonder
The truth yet discovered
What’s in a hill, over a trunk?
Name that mystery, strike out to that setting
Observe and rename with line and pig’s mane

Until now

Where am I

At the turn
Struggling with patience
Circling in the backness

Is this what I was born to?

What kind of bleak is the winter day sky
What kind of true is the breathing of air
What kind of scaring last night’s sandwich out of me

But at the same time, a sort of peace
Not sure what to make of it
But this feels good
Right now

Just

Writing

it

Down