Stray
It's been a while
since I walked crustacean
rocks, plucking on my way
a feather
off old drunken blizzards.
An aching long while
since I lay in the cupped hand
of my long-lost valley
and slept.
The ash tree nods, heavy
with bean-like fruit,
yellowing despite
the slow-paced calendar.
Deeply incised
in the texture of the day,
the wind has painted channels
in the loose grass.
Toneless light
whispers:
remember seasons,
time's fearless stride
across hollow mornings