small departures

Middle morning

of a day much like the many,

but nonetheless that takes the breath –

green shade bounds the blue

and the ready call of the wren is fitting here, with this:

a moment tender pressed

for what has passed …

From where to descend

down the worn and roughed step

and across a path that leads to rest.

.

Until it falls

and now frozen, caught

by a moment’s thought from whence to stare

at the dare waiting …

that you are forced to wear.

Where need wins out, reaching low

forcing you back here, with a glance –

of such weight,

in which to pause,

red-faced.

And forever to race

at me …

.

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