Navy blue of night,
apprehensive steps
past pages torn perpendicular.
It’s abstract intentionality,
icicles in December woods,
shadows azure with cold,
silver snow cloaked
under weight of yesteryear’s womb.
The ancestors still pushing
to come through. So many stories
still wait to be true. Depth of sadness
too heavy to tell
in real time.
_With nothing to grasp, _
_no one will connect…_
but ...
