Your life breathes and sways like the trees on a cashmere-gray day. Holding breath only to release the gust of angst that belongs not inside of you, not beside you, but in the ethers where it can alchemist into starlight.
So many die, as I sit in pine-paneled bars, where TVs bring stories into our evening on this remote shore of Lake Huron. No one notices, and when I express horror they turn and shrug, these stories far from the truth of their lives.
Sing of Mother Earth, who we must tend, as grateful sons and daughters, born to soil and water. Flame’s fury and wind’s breath as our natural inheritance, the landscape has a face, the rivers run as blood, the rocks as jagged bones…
You wonder why she’s sad when she’s beautiful and she’s adored and she makes people happy. You wonder why she thinks that wine stuff is going to love her more than you do. So much that she falls asleep holding a glass, instead of your hand.