Ramble

The river smells of ghosts again.
Sometimes we worry
They’re our own —
That this rambling
Is bringing us
To no good end.

Was a time
We were strong
And settled.
Now all is expectation —
And we must trust
Attentiveness
To take on
What defenses
Can no longer manage.

And we should be so lucky.
That something might happen
To break the intensity
Of this day-to-day.

But this loneliness we looked for
Dominates.
We celebrate
The dark and the dead,
And can wish
It were otherwise —
But know
You will never find us here.

And the answers
Are just dust —
Something to be found out
And cleared away.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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