hazy summit
The ink is a river of cooling lead,
Tracing the maps that your fingers drew,
Where every word that was never said
Stiffens to salt in the morning dew.
The fence-line stutters across the hill,
Stitching the earth to a heavy sky,
While the wind works over the window sill
With the thin, sharp edge of a winter cry.
The long, flat road leads away from grace,
While rain falls like iron bars against the glass;
The slant of light reveals the dust on your frame,
Marking the hours that refuse to pass.
I walk the perimeter of the ghost,
Counting the stones in the garden wall;
I am the traveler, I am the host,
I am the leaf that forgot how to fall.
The shadows are long and lean and thin,
Reaching for heels that have turned to go;
The ice is beginning to blossom in
The quietest corners of all I know.
The horizon is pulling its shutters tight,
Drowning the gold in a wash of gray.
I’ll draw a line through the coming night
And hope it leads back to the light of day.
grand raptor
halcyon nova