Call Me, or Come to Me

words, whither going whence?

Image by qimono on pixabay

There are days

when words sit far

away

simply over there.

A wild

stillness here

mute frond silhouettes

there.

Call me

or come to me,

you are as dear

to me as

bread is to hunger,

alpenglow

to forgotten peaks.

Sudden rush of

mallard wings

too close to lake water

— depths of

striated jade wizened

beyond water —

makes

me afraid.

I am afraid

though sunlight

slants on pure

green

bird droppings

and spun gold

babies.

To most

of us mostly,

fear is the

only companion;