The trees are very nice to me
They block the sun and give me leaves
They let me climb on their limbs
So I can be free

The trees are pretty shy like me
They don’t like others among other things
They shy away from others like them
Sometimes they get along in the end

The trees have nice crowns like me
Mine is a mess but theirs is so pretty
I tell them all the time
They don’t like to share designs

They shy away from each other
And keep their own crowns
Crown shyness, I say
As I feel the same

The way is foggy
There is no signal here
No maps, no roads
No lights, no signs
Nor signals to guide me
I am a stranger
To this one-horse town
I do not know

So I fall into slumber
To dreams of woods of umber
The ground still with frost
This icy chill biting at my heels
Are these the dogs of winter?
Is the cold of autumn or spring?
Am I the only one who
Feels anything?

As I climb it gets colder
The mist steals further in
More so I feel lost
Torn between the way home
And the way my heart leads
Though I do not know
Which of these is in front
Nor behind me

From love I draw strength
Blindly it pulls me onwards
I do not know if my path is true
If it leads me to you
If it leads to pastures new
If it leads me back to paths already trodden
Retraces unseen footprints
Through marsh and swamp

I feel so small
A speck in this vast landscape
Amidst unconquerable forces she commands
To which I am subject
Strong may be my legs
But a great load they carry
And I fear they may buckle
For weak, she can make me

it's late
(as always)
and I hear voices
voices in the trees
in the ever moving tides
and the star-specked skies.
they blur with the howling wind
or maybe they whisper in secrets
on purpose
to avoid lonely ears
such as mine.

I wonder do trails get lost
I wonder do trails get lost when people abandon them
To start their own path
Or I wonder if it is like giving birth
A beautifully painful experience
Accompanied by long hours
But the yielding result being
More precious then they ever imagined
I wonder do trails remember their birthing
When the world was young
And humanity had yet to ******* their mother
I wonder do they hate how humanity treads on them
Or is it something they’ve grown accustomed to
I wonder do trails ever think back to a time
Before they became paved
I wonder do they ever desire to be undone
To become overgrown again
To be wild again
To be untamed again
I wonder do trails consider
Thats why humanity made them in the first place
So they can feel undone
Feel over grown
Fell wild and untamed once more
Never realizing who they cauterized to do so
I wonder do trails ever hate humanity for its apathy
I wonder do trails get lost in thought
About all they’ve lost

Steady thumping, thumping.
The boat travels downstream.
The water is brown, from silt.
The current is swift but calm.
Trees line the edges of the river.
Green foliage, thick on both sides.
The sky is blue with white clouds.
A bridge passes overhead, with cars.
Downriver, a large load is being pushed,
to the locks in the dam up ahead.
The water is deep now and dark.
An eagle cries out, and lets fly.
I bring the small vessel to a stop,
and watch all around me.
A train on the side of the water,
the barge moving away,
trucks on a freeway above,
the hum of shipping goods,
and the beauty of nature in one.
Tranquility, and constant motion.
I slowly begin to turn around,
and begin the steady trek,
upriver to where I began.

A quiet snow lined roadway.
A bird singing on a telephone line.
Footprints in the snow.
A path I’ve not walked.
Around another bend.
The song drifts off,
and a rabbit bounces its way.
The trees have icicles.
Now the world is cloaked in quiet,
but for the crunch of my boots,
and breathing.
Heavy breathing from the cold.
A few more bends.
Back to what I know.
Just a little longer,
till fire welcomes me.

Between old trees I sowed seeds one eve
I watched them woke as warmth grew savage;
Out from the coats sprouted wreaths of leaves,
Came starry nights, welcome to teenage.
I knew sooner I could see them grow.
I could feel them dreaming from within.
I could smell an odor that I know.
The scent of teen spirit from their skin.
I wondered if they're dazzled like me
When the night skies would be filled with stars.
Were they keeping undersoil mem'ries?
Have they known of teenage being scarce?
Because I know; time will make us go.
And when all the leaves fell,
I follow.

Ive had to stop answering the phone,
Because your absence taught me how to be alone.
The pictures overhang like collapsing waves,
And i view it only on holidays.

My island is all my own
And i visit with regularity
The water is pristine
And sunlight not unlike that of Montreal or Milan,
Athough ive never been.

Ive stopped going to church
The chapel is far to high
And these days only broken bottles speak.
Not to mention my demanding job,
Short order cook, 40 hours a week.

I miss that Island all my own,
The silent rivulet beneath the sands,
The sunbeam grips this sleepless land.