A thin thread lies just out of reach.
I noticed it yesterday when the winds came
over the sea from across the iced landscape.
Dangling with purpose, its motion set
to keep balance with the vibration.
I look out from this peak above the tree-line
further up the slope passing through low-level clouds
and into a charged atmosphere, a place forgetting about sea-level
looking further beyond here where the spiritual and mystical
are common-place and work constantly, surrounding your
physical being, breaking you piece by piece
until left as a shred of your previous self.
cold. cold descends from crystal blue
fading from the orange horizon. cold bones.
I look over the shreds and watch them
freeze and become ice, encased, I can
no longer use them. Now I see through
the pieces I was made of and wonder
what do they see. Crouching on the ice and rock
I look through one toward other peaks
with the moon beginning to rise and briefly
I am no longer here, in this plane.
The snow gods and angels rise from the
crevasses and deep blue twists and fades
intermingles with fine mist unseen.
As I looked at the design of the poem today I noticed how you incorporated dangling by a thread into your piece. Fine poem. It deserves many readings.
Thank you Kristin, I appreciate the feedback and your kind words. To be honest, that was not intentional, it just happened to be written that way, channeled from somewhere else.