Heaving up the trashed and torn roots
right here next to the old gallows pole hill
Dig inside my soil.
Every glance is taken like a last solidified picture:
Released with the dew-drops in a morning haze.
Autumn’s shrouded leaves flicker.
(Daylight in its rising counts itself as old annual rings
finding me in the uncertain emptied; filled with real need.)
Time continues.
To willful use for the eye
meets the entrance by the edge of the woods
where soaking-wet leave-mounds glimmer
from the same dawn to dawn enclosed
in the greyed trees, the bluish skies
watched and awaited; Time continues.
(Juniper bushes, which stood on the slopes
treads on the longed for forest grounds
up the duskily pine-needle filled paths.)
Feel the presence.
Harshly appears the cold ways
denying cloud covered days,
which felted all my time here.
The wind hisses bodefully.
(Out-witted as an autumn-adorned branch
taken down with the now icing night-wind.)
Hear me clearly; Time continues.