Tuesday, December 13, 2011


I live up here out of reach
of what passes for truth
down there. I could go down
to get my bearings
before the story returns.

Where rain walks lame
ice sleeps under snow,
birds fly home to get warm.
There old men are rare
who tell wild stories.

My love says, Go, I’ll go too,
and here we are, in transit:
I can’t say yet, I don’t know
what words need, but not about.

(13 December 2011)

copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander

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