it's not how long we live
nor even the how or why, as
these things become obstacles
to the simple act of flying
i can't be her nor him
or another me
any more than today
can be yesterday or tomorrow
when you walk through the woods
can you read between the pines?
lie down on unclaimed earth,
trace the fallen maple leaf on your heart
and let it go?
can you dip a single finger
in the smallest of forgotten streams
and listen to it's thoughts?
perhaps
we are too noisy, too wanting
too full of cluttered thoughts
that are the tax on emotions
we can never square
based on results
the passing geese
let the changing seasons
tell them when to fly
and where just happens
while the braided trees
forest deep and silent
are content to be no more
not wishing to be clouds
so take the grocery list
from next week's dinner party
and with those old love letters
put all on the last log burning
boulders to ash
and just be a breath
listening to the North-wind's call
telling us our plans are a truce
already breached
and our regrets
a contract with ghosts
