What Joy, To Be Here At Last

Water finds its way under ice avoiding
The cruelty of freezing temperatures, the roar
Of spring rapids breaking over limestone shore,
Smooth and glass
And trying to be something else I am reflexive
Breaking apart when leaves fall,
Finding solace in smothering virtue with grace,
Similar to how six inches of snow inundates
Evidence of decay then, the following day
Tumbles so tender and whimsical

Jagged mirrors of cedar menhir separate
Caught against the rough space beneath crow’s feet
Call and pray upon the frayed fabric of wildlife
A bandanna becoming beating heart snagging
Tattered on overhanging branches:
Everything is unraveled into its simplest form

Trail path formed above the fragility of forgotten Spring
Recedes flowing north instead of south,
Ash warped and leather wrapped turns
A river bend into a log cabin
Resting atop a widow’s crest
And we all run and wander,
Looking for what-
The lost warmth of birth
While trying to avoid the burden of being
Lost and wild-
Home is a whisper spoken
On soft winter afternoons
Slithering through broken boughs of bramble buds
Indifferent to parallel occurrences, stumbling
Through a delicate image unknown and
Unaware

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Author: Montana Svoboda

I'm a genderless poet currently living in Central Michigan where I attend college for Environmental Science and English. Nature's some cool shit, frisbee's a neat activity, fountain pens are best pens, Latakia for life, coffee and tea keep these gears turning.

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