Bent and Beat

the snow is gone and forgotten here

only the red cinder remains, crackling under feet and tire studs

while back at home

it piles up with no sign of stopping

what to wish for then?

what to bemoan, the lack or distance?

in a time of the heart i listen only to my mind

not by choice as much as it is simply the way the winds blow

through the valleys and passes

twisting around the mountains and growing more unfamiliar

as they grow more distant from their source

though their force is rarely diminished

the faces in my house twinkle lately like the lights hung on the houses

while i wonder about trees and symbols

books and unfallen snow

the smoke in my periphery is a ghost

it fools me more than once

while a voice from yesterday sings without a trace of nostalgia

fresh and new and only recognizable by its tone

sometimes we are poets

others we are reporters

but mostly only typists