you do not tell your most sacred stories until the first frost
and always
in the dark
since 2004 internet searches for the word ‘anxiety’
have gone up 300%
but there is ‘wisdom in insecurity’
sitting with the unknown in the dark
on an empty stomach
while the world sleeps
too much summer
the leaves are crisp kindling
and the stories are delayed
cold air in the morning
off-set by lung-tightening wild fire smoke at daylight
altered states are only useful
as long as they are just that
will i ever come back?
will we ever come back?
where there is perfection
where the known is set in stone
there are no stories to tell
just stagnant wild fire smoke
hanging in the valley
for an endless summer
