Too much rain.
The seed has lifted on muddy foam, giving way to swirling eddies that tamper with the proper ratio of loosened soil to grounded fertility.
Watching it all flow towards disappearance, one wonders if the silence is ever total. There are still whispers in the pine's feathery heaven. There are yet footsteps rustling leaves and pressing down the pebbles of a shared path.
A hawk is preening in the landscaped creek.
He remains free to be the truth. Weren't we all of the same flesh once? Now we squabble about pilgrims versus wanderers, despite the knowledge that I Am/ where the trail/ is not. The words are washing away too, my traveling friend.
Amongst storms, I childishly await the mild.
Summer will arrive while we are away, trekking in a foreign winter. This new lash and chill will be oblivious to our near death escape of its northern sibling. Is any other proof needed in regards to the futility of waiting on anything but the present? Even winter's thin light must suffice for the impoverished.
The light of thought, like stars, is not really there.
Our eyes shine in twinkling brilliance as if the guidance leads us anywhere. Yet I cannot call you darling because you are not really there. Your long-ago-light picked my head up for a midnight kiss, when beholding was the entire point. How tiring the wretched existence of the mind!