Recounting the Ghost.

What strange awareness comes
to the mind as it follows snow to the ground?

A place that is old yet, feels familiar and bright.

I travel here often, bound by the spirit of thought.
The education of learning about my environment.

Bound by thoughts as they follow my leader to
the discourse of my surroundings.

I know of the things
that reside in other parts of this land.
I have seen sunsets
in distant states.

Kudzuu jungles of deep
long forgotten woods.

Oak tops of some lonely corner of Georgia,
the slow moving shoes of Alabama,
the grass yards of a house.

How strange it is, to watch a backyard of some forgotten life;
back when the morning coffee was an entire meal.

When delicate skin hung from fragile bones like the meat of some hunted animal! Silence in a hunters breath. Bated!

Waiting for the distant songs to crawl into the lungs and inspire the breath of once remembered mysteries.

But now, they stand, as forgotten memories.  But now, new questions have been framed in the mind of children.  The softness of tradition takes our little fingers and washes the past in our new life.

I have found much since the days of moons spent.

I carry these with me, moons like small coins in the pocket of my torn jeans.

I eat when I am hungry, sleep when I am tired.

Running from some imaginary ghost is an old time favorite, but this life is changing fast.  I know that i am-for no particular reason.  I know that this is the direction of some untold future. It takes me; the past.  And I allow it to wash me in its strange lucid light.

With curious wings,

I will recount

the moments of spring.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s