a pleasure washes over me,
a night fire warms my socks &
the moon is full and casting a light
on the ice night lake across the way
and down the indian path to where
the canoe sleeps beneath the bramble bushes
covered in a light snow that fell
earlier in the day.
i wish that god had found me sooner.
i wish that more of my days had
been less dazed by the fog-like haze
that covered my brain like the
light snow that covers my canoe
by the lake near the indian path.
I am not sure how big a difference
it would have made.
It took a long cold winter night to
finally get me to light a fire in the
rusty cast-iron stove that burns the
wood and ignites my desire to write
to you now, by a dim light, a candle or two,
and tea that comes all the way from china.
It has always been about you, you know.
Though I pretended well, and made much hay
of it, while the sun shined on the younger
Eclipsed by a fast moving cloud, the moon lite
night faded dim and the shadows left no
sign of where the light had fallen. Light
leave no trace when it fades, no foot print
to follow, no track to smell my way back
from where I came. Traces, we do not
leave them when we finally leave for good.
The scent is gone, the moss is covered,
an oak leaf hangs from a branch fluttering
in the wind, blowing as the gust of cold harness
shards of ice and brakes them into a thousand
kisses deep, sharp against the flesh of my face.
Leonard, it was always you that gave me pause
and made it right.
my monastery by night.