Bones ( Work In Progress)

A sycamore's bones, mottled gray-white
Devoid of the greenery that once enrobed
Gone now that Winter's flourish is upon
Stand sentinel over the rushing stream
Deeper pools reflecting and sitting soundless
Gray-green, cold, and full of inimitable stillness
Skeletal fingers, frost covered sheen darkened
By the grey breath of a cold mornings fog
Rise up to the drab gunmetal pallet above
Painting each steely cloud with its tips
A single leaf, golden, the only color about

Rises and falls with the swells of the water

Its journey unknown but floating, swifter

And swifter downstream

Weather or Mood

Fallen snow swirling across the road
Wind driven and ghostly pale white
A dancer fluid and graceful, haphazard
Cold biting deep, clear to my bones
Matching everything I feel inside
No warmth surviving the world

I'm relishing more and more the obscurity of this. There has grown an immense feeling of safety and comfort in the fact that no one reads this. If someone even did, they would not know me. They would know nothing about me except for the words contained herein. There would be no context, no knowledge of my experience, no basis from whence I come. Just. These. Words.

Depth

It's the loneliness that really does it
The depth of it, the size, the persistence
As if a boat has capsized and you're falling
Down into an ocean bottomless and
Claustrophobic all at once. Cold. Infinite.
Squeezing the very life as the expanse
Opens wider and wider

Stand

Standing as ghostly sentinels rising
Through a spring mist, itself spectral
Oblivious to the last vestiges of winter
Uncaring of the greenery making it's
Attempt to rise verdant through snow
Grey-white and straight as arrows
The Beeches carry on and on

Green and Grey

Always the eyes that remind me
Always the eyes I cannot forget
A willingness to lose myself
A willingness to drown in their color
Makes no difference whether
They shine with the light of an icy sea
Or radiate the warmth inherent
In liquid brown spheres flecked with gold
Yet always the eyes that draw me
Are those that look deep into my own
With the fathomless color of a stream
Flowing from the cold mountain
Running deep with the early snow
Green and grey and wild