The embers of distance long for its volumes;
They call a valley of whimsy hilltops,
The uproots from which tracey wind takes.
It’s as crisp as the song they sing;
The tentative dives of cozy stories:
Images which breathe home – all which breathes in the past.
Flakes char off the dying season:
They swirl and stir with dull starryness.
Black feelings; the moods of color –
Color translates here; it is a similarity of skeletons,
Of ghosts, ghouls, the dead and the before
How they climb up upon unrealness
To grasp and bind and siege the eyes of emotive me.
I might find myself there,
I might find myself in a harvest of oranges,
A field of small fruit; the multi-dotted crosshair where I might –
Find myself away from the breath of the past:
I might find myself away from home.