Getting Late

am I entirely without grace

without saying

the green mist encircles leads me

I hear myself

a genuflection

in a chapel

of darkly towering trees

through its heavy doors

I look off into the furthest distance

cover familiar ground

around its edges

the footprints still frozen in mud and time 

are likely mine

there are no others walking here

the fallen poplar its tangled roots gaping hole

reveal the bones of saintly creatures

they are stirring now

snow geese in heavy snow falling brings down thousands upon

curtains fields with a whiteness

walking away from me it is

a moving purity

getting late

I retrace my steps

until invisibility

shields me from

the peering eyes

of these passing

graceless

fools

JPPestana

Getting Late

3.9. 2022