bereft yet full

i'm wrung out
with no idea of what's next
tears and coffee drip out of me
-very little blood left-

reaching the end of wit
floods smallness and humanity
brimming to my eyes,
the palpable reminiscence
of my lacking ability
to control the world.

the air goes silent,
-ringing-
people mouthing so many helpful
distant things.
vision blurs
the future dims
and each labored footfall
against the wind
hurts.

poetries and scripturings--
prayers by me
for me
from some other wayfarer
who's walked this trail before
or begrudgingly foretold the story

peace is felt in the flow
of a pen
or in the little blood
there is left...

no words but the inspiration within me....

i find beauty in the jagged edges on a map,
-the unkempt lines that separate us-
seeing that the land, still our better
even yet defines us.

give me broken, untaut borders
and the rocky, beguiling coasts
so that i may never find myself confined.

no cabin fever here

long over due. often need an impetus of unique qualities to get me back here with my pen.

fresh percolated coffee rests to my right, the fire in the place ticks its approval of our being here. warming and burning the logs chopped with our own collective hands.

i forget how healing this mountain get-away is until i am rested in its rustic clutches.

just a few friends and i, nestled away from the cold, enjoying the simpler pleasures of and in the high country. a mountain brewery, rich-fine coffee, a deck of cards, a board game, and four pairs of snowshoes.

in taking a moment, i have found exactly what i was looking for.