I made my way home,
over the damp carpet
of leaves upon the path,
the soft, sinewy squish
of their moss-like flesh, those
remnants of the hard,
angelic trees, raised
with tranquility, steadfast
into the sovereign sky.
If I could paint them a more
sublime portrait, I swear to God
I would. But as a runner
through these heavy,
saint-like woods, I am not a crease,
nor a wrinkle in time: I am
only a man
in heavy love
with the soft, with the hard clamp
of losing these images
again.
11/07/2016
Richmond
after soccer and a jog