framed in fog. A hollow echo in empty bones shifts between gray shadows. Sharp edges scrape bare skin exposed to cold wind under a bright clear sky. A sun blinds, feeds a single seed until it grows into a large tree. I can climb A large tree to see a horizon that retreats into distance.
Sun melts low into horizon, paints a thin orange wash across hay field stubble, raises a roll of hills and farmsteads into still life framed within bare tree windbreaks where I pause in my journey to watch sunlight blend with land before sky lowers to embrace my path in twilight’s shadows.
At day’s end, shadows draw pond water into sky’s dark, meld field stubble’s slow dissolve into grove’s trunks. I can only imagine star’s sparkle in my eyes that cannot see beyond this blur into night, so quiet I hear my breath, a whisper little removed from breeze rustle in dry leaves and waves’ pulse at
Time ticks in pipes that grow and dim with hot water rush, a slow dissolve absorbed by blizzard’s roar, windows white whirls against cold hard panes, world blurred into tiny fragments, perfect crystals when water stops its flow, falls from frigid sky and plants upon glass before it slips away into time’s flow.
In worn cardboard boxes lie old calendars, pages torn, corners bent, years and months littered in neat stacks on estate auction tables, a stranger’s life up for bid, squares on grids filled in and passed and worth a dollar.
