shadow in exile

the darkest hours aren't fixed
between dawn and dusk.
a bleak light grafted to unclaimed,
late noon. flat
and thin edged.
sharp. don't touch.
subtly sour. it bleaches
my texture flat. a complete and quiet
annihilation despite

a backdrop of birdsong.

i strain to hear the
things with wings that sing.
it's everywhere lost to simple listening.
how do we become so used to beauty?
irreverent.

writing is a place
of emergency. writing like
a fugitive hidden
behind sanctified walls.
a poorly made roost - oddly sized nails,
splintered boards -- unstable, yet crafted
with care - full intent.
a center erected.
homed birds return with a message
or not.

if there's a barrier, it's a wall
of invitation. the stones fit loose,
carefully chosen for
their imperfection. room to breathe,
each to each and each between.
the wind given voice, so it comes
to sing - nature's force diffused
through its unearthly whistle,
channeling ghosts or perhaps
the rocks themselves.

and when the mooded earth
move-fidgets, the stone's resettle with it.
inverted time lapse dances of mountain ridges,
sleek as snakes.

urgency can be incredibly slow - thoughts so
deliberate, they stall
- somewhere
- impossibly vague
- safe from written language.
startled and kept at bay by
light's sharp edges. taken
for granted. so, guarded from me
by my own internal silence.
a boundary erected
with reverence's final vestige.