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Photo by Ales Krivec on Unsplash

The puff of my exhale
draws me back into the quiver,
where I try not to compete
with the pointed edge
of surrounding stillness.

Feeling the need to beg
a pardon for the sheer offense
of my brazen steps.

The furtive whisperings of trees
no longer include me.
I’ve turned outsider
amongst a familiar landscape,
decomposed into foreign.

Squirrels playful banter
now serious as they chitter over rations,
and the bright blitz of my river’s song

Slows to a lazy trickle
in dire need of a long nap.
Slate blue shadows
of exposed mountains slough off
curves waiting to be wrapped

In the frosted blanket
of winter’s promises
for rest, while all I can think of

Is bundling up
in layers upon layers
of flannel, and filling
all my cavernous spaces
with warm tea and honey.

Aching for a chair to rock
some of nature’s solitude in, to restore
the soul of my own log cabin.

Where a single plume of smoke
still rises, in memory of those years
less silent, yet never more alive.

A pause in the lifeline, a felt pulse
of inaction, an interlude with purpose,
an outline to be rewritten.

Written by

Holes and a series of rabbits — my debut poetry collection — now available! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089RRRGXX/

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