Poetry

Indicted,
the firm grass―
will start a fire. I was trying
to find my path in smoke.
 
On fingertips, was at stake,
the creek's departure.
I would wear a mask
hiding my emotions.
 
We will wait for the spring.
There was still a mound of snow
at the door.
 
The rape of the moon
was not in cards. We were ready
to sit in moonlight, reading
our hands.
 
Philosophy of death
has many questions. Religion
of birth has many answers.