my grandfather lived
in a simple house near a winding cool branch with slipery stones
and verdant woods
I approach the treeline where
and there in the shade of autumn’s bough
i see darkness rising.
close of day.
visited then and will on all men
it is unchanged, like the virgin nest of the wip-poor-will
tender unforgiving visitor on the side of the hill
where i last heard his voice.
It is a limitless forum
universal joy wrapped in shrouds of morning
bringing all things into One
All chances and choices
flowing across the deep scored soil of experience
over the grit and the mud
cool and ever present current
and I stand in the mud of this branch call brown