A smooth river. Rich banks of sand.
A log without roots loitering far from
home.
Tree dripping moss. Snaking branches.
A dirt road. A home at the end where I live.
Trees boasting gnarled thickness.
A deep legacy. Vines with fingers.
Leaves with eyes to the sun.
Ghosts at the gate. Leaves of autumn
lay dead.
Mists of night. Searching faces covered.
A cold closeness of ground releases day.
All things die twice.
A silver stream. Cat silent.
The paws of water stepping slow;
destined for here and there.
Foundations of bricks. The language
of once a home. Forgotten walls.
Voices of my youth. Faces with words.
Roger Singer 