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 haven’t we all

felt this way before?