I could not hear a thing
Except the
Hazy burden of a misplaced birdsong,
Elegant as a hushed psalm,
Echoing far away with the vagueness of separation.
A prolific silence, maintained by my reverence
Of such an untouched crevice of humanity,
Welled up around me,
Filling me with the merciful contentment
I have longed for for so many months.
How I did walk with such unrequited thanks
For the yielding grace
Of the old oaks
And watched my breath in the crisp November air
The winter breezes, harsh, yet pure,
Bite at the hot, pink tips
Of my weathered hands,
Numbing and, in turn, slowing me to stillness, and
To a fond hope of redemption
And in the absence of any thought of comprehension,
I pause in this beautiful forest,
And for the briefest of heartbeats,
I am alive.
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