sight: fore, hind, and otherwise (a working title)

Tender branch with sprouting bud.
This is mine.
It is not yours.
I claim it, you cannot.

Hulking trunk with tender branch.
This is yours.
It is not mine.
You claim it, I cannot.

Sprouting bud with hope eternal.
This is theirs.
It is not ours.
They claim it, we cannot.

On the occasion of a clearing away.

I crouch low to touch it.
To run my hands across the pebble-bare slab freshly cleared of her former glory.

Grandfather! Look what your hands hath wrought!

I crouch low to touch it.
To run my hands across a memory.

…your boots have tread here…

I crouch low to kiss it.
To press my lips softly to a memory that is not mine but now is.

Grandfather! Look what your hands hath wrought!

Untitled

In a chair.
In a room.

Careless of time.
Barren of heart.

Pregnant thoughts
aborted in mid air.

When my life
screams breathless
in the lungs
of a soul not
unlike my own.

Hope(less) and devoid
of any nuance.