From Bristling Turf to This, This Soaking Bliss

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




after soccer and a jog