As machinations of

travailing winds,

miraging, veil and mirror

narcissistic nihlistic

false-ego, as self,

"...we(e),..." evince to be.



Finding that find,

giving it away,

aliveness being this day,

and further searching,

to be this day

what it is to be this day.

Throw another log on the fire
the wind's getting up
and the rain's turned to sleet.

Make a dancing ,crackling fire,
to fill up the room
with it's comforting heat.

There may be a power cut
but never you mind,
we'll sit in the light of the fireside glow.

We'll renew our love
without distraction
while outside the sleet turns to snow.

the autumn broods,
moody, full of leaf.
the sky sinks like
a silver ghost,
drinks its pools of
frost, its moments
full of dream.

I don't think about it any more
I take out the trash
noting
Sticks caught in the crotch of a tree
The wind does what the wind does
breaks weaker branches down
does not care where
it leaves
them
on its invisible way

Days do what the days do
they don't count themselves
worthy as they go
to release
the afternoon
to evening—
an artless
emptying
to a low spot
where tears tend to pool
if I'd let them down

“You know,
in that low spot
out there...?”
Where it's hard to see
Where its hard to care?

They take heart
out
divide it by energy
for sadness—
I haven't got

Watched the clock go round
wipe out my little plans
with relentless hands

...and I never got dressed today