Poetry

---

Cold wet barren sidewalks line the same streets as I have walked for years. Undaunted by the relentless winds and frigid gales, they beckon me to soldier on.
As if I were responsible for their invisibility.
Yet I feel a kindred spirit with them and I find solace in the comfort of a warm jacket and the sound of my footfalls upon the damp stone.
The trees watch me as I pass, late Autumn flags flutter listlessly to the ground, coaxing me to dream with them through the winter. They are lonely.


There was a propane tank in a field outside my bedroom window when I was a boy. A light shone diligently night after night upon the naked cylinder & I would stare at the tank and I would be there. In the soft glow of the faithful guard, in the cold, in the rain, in the warmth of a summer night & the crisp Zephyrs of fall.
It was a lonely place and something about it drew me. Just as the cold grey pavement of Autumn, the lone tree in a field, the streetlight on a dark corner, the cross on a hill.
He too was a lonely man.
A man of sorrows.

And he knows me.

---

PLEASE ENCOURAGE AUTHOR BELOW LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE