I Become

I slip amongst the  last

Dawn of winter

I feel the fast fallen leaves

one last death

before the rising green


It's gentle and kind

Calm and right

A dance of thistle shod


trod and heel tilled

ready for the moon to fill

and the sun to settle warm

unheld by cold winds


yet still


There is no journey prepared for me

No solemn promise 

No destined

Only my hands

Only my feet

my eyes look heavy

yet only higher

if I am to be 

and become

I become

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