staring down

How warm the air - like the
	hand of love on the skin -

how rich the touch of the sun
	in a white sky, veiled -

the air is mobile, restless,
	speaking, it rushes and
	pushes the trees, stirs my hair

autumn comes, I feel it in
	the pulse of days, the
	cold to come

water flows down the gorge -
	out of sight - yet the
chasm of the heart, that
dark place buried deep
still lives to slight the
surface hours of life -

how the seasons change
and the tease of all that
could have been
frays the mind.

It grows stronger now, the
sun, reminds that it can burn
in clear highland air
in summertime
when my living is eased
and I do not feel it:
	cracked heart, you pine

how the years are bone
and the crunch of the spine
a reminder of the
grave to come:  these days
are numbered
and they have great power
	to undermine -

even the water rushing, the
hot sun on my skin
and the beautiful air in the
	trees
	do not get me off my
	knees
nor my eyes from the ground.

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