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.