Sunday, May 1, 2016


I've arrived at trouble by the
only door I know : the one that
neither opens nor closes; just
swings in place. There's no
place for either the in or the 
out, and anyway I wouldn't 
go. It's that time of the season 
when all things change. When 
Mayday wrings the neck of things,
and blossoms force flowers from
growth on the trees; leaves replaced
for the moment by beauty. I can
carry this force field of fire wherever
I go, but I can never define what it is.
There's a stranger walking with me,
one mute and callous, yet strong and
ready. It is to Him that I confide.

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