* Alchemy Farmhouse *


False Villanelle
July 1, 2007, 8:07 pm
Filed under: poetry

Like the sharp, bright eyes of a hound,

He stops, and only then does he remember

Me, on a trail, in the ascending November.

 

Autumnal Ashes, crimson ground

the Mountain Man watches, face steeped in the sun’s amber

with the sharp, bright eyes of a hound.

 

Laughter fleeing as I slip from each log,

Echoes off the memory of October

Me, on a trail, in the ascending November.

 

He aches with my every sound,

but fails to blow out our last ember

burning like the sharp bright eyes of a hound.

 

Kneeled down in Awosting fog,

faith that he will forget the smell of me by December,

Me, on a trail, in the ascending November.

 

Losing the nights we had found,

Mountain Man begins to dismember

with the sharp bright eyes of a hound,

Me, on a trail, in the ascending November.

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