Something strange, fog drifting across

Yesterdays snow, wrapping itself

Around worn out trees, limbs heavy

With the burden of January, they

Sparkle in that silent mist like an

Old mans dreams of childhood he

Has not quite forgotten.

I feel like an intruder there, outcast

Wanderer on sacred ground, each

Step I take crunching in my ears like

Broken promises and the air that I

Breathe a mockery of the fog, snatched

Away by an indignant wind even as it

Invades my lungs with cold intentions.

Moving shadow, aimless silhouette, my

Presence here an anomaly, isolated invader

Of flesh and bone, I embrace this solitude

And find comfort in the cathedral silence

Of natures heartbeat, giving thanks to

Have felt its ebb and flow in the restless

Driftings of that swirling mist.

END

“Outcast”