Close to the new year
Nothing but light in the dark
Of the wrong winter

To enumerate
Not the undying forces
Of the banter gold

But the oldgrowth trunks
Saved from violin bridges
In the nick of time.

Oil left in the depth
As cemetery. For this
Was once a lush world.

Its musty fragrance
Of good soft dirt underneath
Such enormous hoofs.

The sky dark and bright
Thus laden with enough rain
To flow down wind slopes

Both milky and clear
Of the nomadic aspect
That files your hopes.



jam25