"Great Spirit Moon..."
January moans
I wheel in the fire wood
with an old wood-wagon
my boots slip around
on the ice under a
noon blanket of fresh snow
I begin to think I need spikes
when I quickly disappear
from eye level vision
to the ground below
I've had this feeling before,
falling, in some time passed
and visibly forgotten
I wonder why such things
stir my blood and shake my bones
as I am pulling the wagon
nearing to its rest
one of the dogs scratches
at the glass sliding door
and I am taken back
to the moment and task
of hauling wood to the stove
load by load
by load
Orion © 2010
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