Minutia

I.

Owls snuggle in hollow trees. Aware.

I stare at and ascend into the Blue Safire Gin sky.

Angels flit in the stratosphere. Observing.

I grip my walking stick and steady myself.

The river is gone since the flooding,

leaving only a trickle, wet rock and exposed roots.

My life once passed before my eyes, with all its minutia.

But I did not die. Not yet.

The comfort and permanency of the forest,

as it rests on the bones of the past

should not be easily described-.

“Beautiful” and “grateful” are inadequate, over-used, religious words.

The forest can bring the long awaited relief of a lover’s embrace.

Their scent, warmth, breath poured into your soul.

When all is right with the world again.

II.

I know this blissful inebriation is all temporary;

this gin-soaked blue and pine.

Ears flapping and shining,

the Golden gallops into the blue summit,

leaving me far to fend on my own.

And I fear this visual memory of him,

the sting of losing pets.

Unless I go first- (no one knows when except the terminally ill.)

An airplane assaults the sky.

The angels scatter.

Roaring, screaming engines rape the quiet.

The veins of this stream will run toxic one day.

The trees will wither and fall as humans willfully

Accelerate the end times

But I will save my grief for another time.  

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