I don't know what I have seen or where I went wrong. With time I'll know what I can't see. I'll arrive at clarity. For life is strong if time's my guide and days carry me off. If I can begin where I stopped, my slate will clear and I will be found.

The mortar of my mind, the translucent binding is the hope for new memories - the replacement. The fans of the sky blow away what once was and now know to never have been; letting traces of sunlight scatter the prior night's twilight, till the morn' rises to the warbler's hymen song - the marriage of the season, perceptions past and new. Calling through the woodlands, floating, scattered, the purpose the same for all: succeed, depart. And turn their boots and head back south. Arrive and comply, for next season will carry itself.

Our barks vary, all different from one to one. Sycamore, revealing, crisp and sure. Oak, seeming coarse, though simply soft inside. They all wait as we do, loving their fate, as we can only dream of. But we're aware: each of the songs, leaves and blades distinct.

Threads

Until they reveal to me, or make
it apparent, I have no reason
to admire their absence.
I have no reason, except
to let on my own distaste.

If we walk in the meadows,
without breezing grass or
taking a scent,
then what of our saunters,
of our incessant wanderings
and unknown worries.
Who is it if not us?

I've never arrived
when they were at my shoulder,
breaths thick, pervasive and full.
It was only attempts,
glimpses at what once was,
what could have been.
I'm a long way from Canton
and cotton and kind, empty faces -
those that carry nothing -
those that are only that:
faces.

If not for the children
than what's it worth?
Those shit heads pushing smiles,
smirks and tears.
I'm just another, an onlooker
and seeker.
Give me enough grace to wake;
I'll comply.
Leather kills me,
but I guess there's worse.