The Eastern Panhandle

Breathless,  
stood atop bones from yesteryear  
mountains have crumbled  
echoing ear,  shifted open field    
loose lay the gravel, sand, flower and white pebble  
   
the glass broken fragments shine    
sparkling shards to the Sun  
   
voiced  
reason, theory and shoestring  
grips tread wearing slippers  
no purple prism, simply existence  
red forever, chambers contain  
a language I'll never forget  
   
I see hills in the distance  
mounds below this crest  
   
were I the willow  
I'd sing with the wind  
were I the oak I'd stay    
forever stoic, rooted and resolved  
but nothing stays tied to me  
a trunk made with heartwood  
   
~could~hangs on a vision  
all I know right now is distance  
   
a beggars travel    
   
   
   
   
*Written for Jan. Poem of the month...