A rain soaked wind is stripping the last dead leaves
off the tree the way a man disrobes an old lover.
Been here before. Only time being the difference
in the feel of the goose bumps under stealthy fingertips.
The season has lingered longer than anticipated.
The road unfurls in front of my feet,
each step forming cracked slabs of diabolical concrete.
Cars roll by the post-harvest draconian landscape.
All the agribusiness machines are doing their duty
and the fields are being stripped and deserted until Spring.
My ears resonate with the symphony of the wind,
the timpani of traffic on the road,
the rumbling bass of commerce on the IC and E rushing by
unimpeded by the presence of one
who does not accept the finality of the tune.
15 miles from anywhere,
wandering this post-glacial geography stretched in all directions
punctuated by the occasional home or barn or silo.
I am stretched, too. Stretched thin like the soles of my shoes,
like the undarned socks encasing my aching feet. Echoes
of the machines of harvest carry like bitter dew drops
on this corpse of a season, call to me from distant
unfallowed fields. I hold onto the hope
that if I listen carefully enough
there will be an encrypted message for me
in the slight hum emanating from the cellular phone tower
just up the road.
The overlords have no updates for me today.
All year, the seasons have been chasing me; now
there is no trace of them
though I sometimes catch a trace of them
hiding in the tall grass and tangled weeds.
Every time a train passes, I think about walking closer to the track
hunting for young poke leaves to chew on
or maybe save to eat later when I will be near a fire
and a pot of water. (I have no idea when that will be.)
And then my mind turns to Eastern Kentucky,
to the cabin where I spent winters huddled
wrapped blankets and the scent of black walnut
in the iron belly stove,
and the stars
and the stars that shone brightly
that lit the way that led me to this place,
put my feet upon this path.
It
is gone now, swept into the geography of memory,
like every other place my foot has been
and I have learned
there is no point in blaming anyone
for the whim the universe takes
as it rights itself
in spite of the imbalance of so many footsteps
upon the Earth.
Early in the morning I catch a hint of autumn in the air.
It is fragrant. It is a fine old perfume
made from the choicest elements in creation.
And though I have not yet stumbled on the proper name
or who I should thank I extend my gratitude nonetheless
and hope for luck and for the rain to hold off
a little while longer.
off the tree the way a man disrobes an old lover.
Been here before. Only time being the difference
in the feel of the goose bumps under stealthy fingertips.
The season has lingered longer than anticipated.
The road unfurls in front of my feet,
each step forming cracked slabs of diabolical concrete.
Cars roll by the post-harvest draconian landscape.
All the agribusiness machines are doing their duty
and the fields are being stripped and deserted until Spring.
My ears resonate with the symphony of the wind,
the timpani of traffic on the road,
the rumbling bass of commerce on the IC and E rushing by
unimpeded by the presence of one
who does not accept the finality of the tune.
15 miles from anywhere,
wandering this post-glacial geography stretched in all directions
punctuated by the occasional home or barn or silo.
I am stretched, too. Stretched thin like the soles of my shoes,
like the undarned socks encasing my aching feet. Echoes
of the machines of harvest carry like bitter dew drops
on this corpse of a season, call to me from distant
unfallowed fields. I hold onto the hope
that if I listen carefully enough
there will be an encrypted message for me
in the slight hum emanating from the cellular phone tower
just up the road.
The overlords have no updates for me today.
All year, the seasons have been chasing me; now
there is no trace of them
though I sometimes catch a trace of them
hiding in the tall grass and tangled weeds.
Every time a train passes, I think about walking closer to the track
hunting for young poke leaves to chew on
or maybe save to eat later when I will be near a fire
and a pot of water. (I have no idea when that will be.)
And then my mind turns to Eastern Kentucky,
to the cabin where I spent winters huddled
wrapped blankets and the scent of black walnut
in the iron belly stove,
and the stars
and the stars that shone brightly
that lit the way that led me to this place,
put my feet upon this path.
It
is gone now, swept into the geography of memory,
like every other place my foot has been
and I have learned
there is no point in blaming anyone
for the whim the universe takes
as it rights itself
in spite of the imbalance of so many footsteps
upon the Earth.
Early in the morning I catch a hint of autumn in the air.
It is fragrant. It is a fine old perfume
made from the choicest elements in creation.
And though I have not yet stumbled on the proper name
or who I should thank I extend my gratitude nonetheless
and hope for luck and for the rain to hold off
a little while longer.