The woods are a cold and lonely place
To conduct a vigil. There is something
In the February drear that punishes
Desire, and mocks the optimist
Hope has a way of curling into ash
And vapor until the spring

There’s been too much snow
Up along this ridge. I walk in cold cement
And wonder if it is a metaphor I ought to be
Taking notice of. My heart ticks with possibilities;
But that organ is diseased and weary
Now, and almost beyond repair

I am the most foolish of men
It is long past time I stop the
Game and acknowledge
My tender lovelorn years
Have left me disassembled
And I can do nothing now but regret

The birch and aspen, with their stripped
Barks and withered limbs seem
Like such accommodating places
To mourn, if not remember.
Here I can laugh or cry
And no one will be the wiser

One with nature, I remember
That the beauty of the beast is
In simplicity. It is kill or be killed;
Food or feeder; hunter but never
Gatherer. Farming is for those
With the time to cultivate a seed

The old men out walking their Labradors
Tell me the ghost of Thoreau
Walks these cinder trails. But rancid puddles
Are not Walden Pond and in the eyes of
Passing man and beast I do not
See the questioning mien of philosophers

03/12/2010

Posted on 03/12/2010
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch