Monday, December 19, 2011

I know not this place I know so well

I have set my gaze
Upon this terrain
For twenty years
Although I do not yet know it
intimately, strangers are we...
I see the mist
fall on the frosted foothills
Always restless
Leaving a trail
Without leaving a mark
The homeless is home

I hear the wind
familiar and yet estranged
Singing a ballad
through symphonic needles
and percussion gorge
a chorus of bent reeds
whom only echo space

I recognize the redness
the redress
of dawn
claiming cloud
the water's reflection below
I stand in stillness
shallow breath
my own mist revealed
knowing that this very exactness
shall not pass this way again....

Timothy Anderson
December 2011

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