My feet are made of skin and bones.
With little hair, calloused toes remain bare.
Nothing to hold the heat during this afternoon hike.
I was born naked.
Reckless moves may land a heel upon prickly stems.
Circulation carries my pair of knobby knees higher.
My boots remain damp, drying by the wood stove.
None of my socks are white.
Contact with the origin; earthly vibrations are abundant.
Silent retreat, this is what I seek.
A few wise words, is all I’ll need
to call upon lightning come darkness & thunder come silence.
Hard is the cold walk to the top.
No seeds will be sewn on this solstice.
No harvests are born of these dampening drizzles and windy wails.
Slicing switchbacks, I climb through thickets of mud and composting logs.
I can’t seem to remember who the Sun is anymore.
Was it Apollo with the flute? And Pan with the chariot?
I am host to a forgetful parasite.
I nurture this fungus as it grows, in hopes that it will manifest a mind for me.
Decay in the forest, decay on my mind.
This is the place where summer comes to slumber, or die.
Here is the landscape for my belated Christmas card.
It takes true contrast in order for beauty to shine.
A ripple on the horizon; behold, a late-afternoon glow!
Shallow shadows wander back towards their homes.
Lonesome by my side, I sigh into a slump of solitude,
leaving loneliness at home in my bed on the floor.