the recent yesterdays
are gone in a mud haze:
feather; feather memory
light and soft
and busy in the wind -
i rest in meadows, i rest above roads with friends at hand
and sigh, and sigh a bit louder, and sigh to myself again.
she needs a good shaking, she herself could say
while unattached, while free and spiraling;
the supposed times of transparency
but times of work, and work within, and work again
blights and blunders past rear themselves up like stallions,
fiercely oppositional to cold and logic and the best intentions.
things go so very cold in such shadows. but warmth comes, creeps in, creeps so slowly in
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