A torrent of new faces behind the trees, lost for the forest. Hints are all we can hope for, unconcealed in the revealing darkness. Pretend, just for now, that to dream and wake align. Where does truth live then?
Winter is the time for concentration. Howling storms; meditation. Seafoam air calls me from the ocean. Just a flavor of ion. Woods are not silent. Roots drink, insects crawl. Worlds stir. And traffic muffles.
Myrtle blooms in drifts surround gnarled trunks, and I wonder - next year, too? Sit by the river to watch the fish ripple - but mourn their freedom. A stiffer wind might descend into the valley. Will I notice it?
Writing poetry is embarrassing. You don't think so? You're a fool. There is no one in whom sadness in endemic; tears are too common. Language speaks, not you. Perception, you say, mirrors the world. Idiot.