I was West once
with every direction to Me,
the horse beneath Me,
morning burnt My face with chill
It builds no fire now,
but churns My stomach and regret.

The trees do not sing to Me as strong,
I pass frail, new ears rejoice
in their voice, and give notice to them.

I lived deep in the forest
where river bottoms cleansed My body
and eased the heat, time has taken
Me from its edge.

Brick and mortar have encased Me
and will be My tomb,
not laid in the sweet-grass where My beginning should end.
But here where nothing is open
and warmed by the Sun...and the scents of freedom.

Copyright 2017 Vincent. All Rights Reserved.

"Grace always pours from a closing wound"