set,
non-set,
Containment.

Western boot snow prints,
ice, snow, heel, toe, walking sound,
creek interrupts gate.

The old sod house,
The west wind
chit, chit, chatters the hinges,
The door creaks to 'n fro,
Vermin music to the denizen within.
The old sod house on the hill,
The windows were broken long ago
Like old folks who've lost their 20/20.
And the memories too have leaked
Through that busted fenestration.
Where most the year the wind is weir
And long ago caught the laughter
That onetime surely resided here.
Hard to know who did lived there.
There's only one that surely knows,
I'll ask the wind.

*This poem is a collaboration with joann alabsy who inspired its creation an contributed generously.  Any and all short comings reside at my door.

"Who am I?"

When I was three, six, ten, sixteen, twenty...
not a single cell could trace the transition,
therefore I must not be my body.

If not my body, then my thoughts?
I can not frame a thought that has not changed!

If I'm not my body, nor my thoughts
Who am I?
Who asks this question?

Upon reflection,
we are the source of all tears,
as if naked,
alone,
in an infinite sea,
backpedaling,
breast stroking,
with a limitless blue sky
the only encouragement,
to remain afloat.

Her brain,
miswired
in the way a microphone
feeds it's amp's audio gain,
infinitely looping
loopiness,
with ever madding annoyance
until madness has only itself
to entertain.

(insert  complaint here)
You cut me off ,
but you'll not steal my day.
Were it to happen,
I would be both thief,
and the one stolen from.