Thursday, October 11, 2007


11 October 2007, 8:14 AM

It hurts an awful lot, and howls,
when the wind picks up and the bark
grows thick; the bite, sharp.
It’s hard to feel much through the layers
of dead brown, pealing away. One has to trust
the next layer will be closer to sage-
otherwise (or even so) there’s suffering to be had,
and tears, with age. Wisdom comes thus.

She keeps on,

though at times she thinks she’d be grateful
if some wood-wanderer would finally
fell her so she wouldn’t have to fight anymore
to reveal her skin, wouldn’t have to struggle so
to see the inward rage- separate the present
from the past; gentle rain from pelting fires of hell.
She’d failed to hope they could not last forever.

No comments:

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

Site Hits