an embankment at the edge of the woods

You will not find me beneath the stair
for I have given up my playing there
in favor of vines that toussle my hair.

I am not by my brother's side pinned
for I must, too, from his play rescind
else miss the freedom of the blowing wind.

You find me absent from folded quilts
for I found the strength of ancient silts
where the earth a wall of clay has built.

I play no more in Daddy's colognes
for I, for quiet, the house disown
and prefer now the company of stones.

I am not there, high in the hay loft
for I the pleasure seek something soft
and hay could never compare to moss.

In the chicken coop find not you me
for I the haven of bending trees
have sought and dance there with the fairy king.

Return I not, though desperate your call
for I, by the woods, have been enthralled
and in private joy, have forgotten all.

On the man whose boyhood photo seems to say, "help me, I'm hurting."

I know it was a smile that I had seen
in a photograph, maybe you were fourteen,
or even twelve;
but still, looked you not happy to so do.

It seemed a twinkle in your eye that gleamed
was outward put by lies that left you teamed,
between the two;
it was your heart that with your eye did swell.

Or maybe the curl of your lips was feigned
for I have known you owing to disdain,
still I am new;
I can not of your disposition speak.

And for whom's sake, did you conceal the day
that brought you to the point which you could say,
"I am not weak."
"Help me, I'm hurting." Words of strength, from you.

For Another, or Both

Here is one half the pair of my father's lost shoe.
Now there is one where first there were two.
No, before the lie is set, let it be said in tone
that first there was one, but now, the second, alone.
What rambled through cornfield and was lost on the way
has come back, and instead of gone, becomes the way;
for there is nothing to be said for the foot
that but now placed first, was first second put.
That shoe, so gone in proudest eternity, there on a shelf,
becomes the reminder that though through it comes, is not of the self.