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time lost

fables of one's own shadows

usually begin
with a dying memory on a sinking ship

and an ancient knot - so strong
elegantly tying your words, making them whispers
(whispers - melting on silence like soft snow floating
on a brook almost too small for a map)

and it's those few early autumn days, when it might rain (and it might not)

that the leaves, on the ground, discover the sacredness
of falling

(of touching
an unnamed rock)

as spontaneously as a pond
reflects the geese

and as silently as your memories die behind you
you walk alone out of the forest

(a forsaken solitude - the trail

of a shadow's story)

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