A swift
gust
the edge
of the cliff
a prickle
of dust
and pine.
Soft guitar
thrums.
Drums steady
and
deep
a beckoning call
Of nature’s
divide
the loss
of technology
the freedom
of the world.
I
hear
on golden
wings
she’ll carry me
to a land
not
touched.
The wild
a soft
rain upon
my gritty skin.
With
eyes
bared
closed
you’re
flannel
touch
will waken
the lulling
loons
and
the
haunting
questions
of big eyed
souls
listening
to
constellations.
A
soft
papery birch
kiss.
Forever
will
be
remembered
beneath the wild
yawning
beasts
in a flurry
of cabin
logs
and
smoky lungs.