for Richard <br /> <br />What lonely direction <br />goest thou my friend? <br />A gray ghost, you’ve <br />slipped silently through us <br />as though we're an arbor <br />forested with notions, <br />a scent of moss, ardor <br />of pine tops, star-shrouded <br />glimpse of you moonlit <br />bristling in timber <br />untamed as smoke <br />elusive in solitude <br /> <br />A plaintive howl <br />pricks your ears <br />and you sharpen <br />your wits about you <br />white teeth bared <br />as the drunk woodsman's <br />laughter rises <br />from a cabin <br />in your thoughts. <br />How many woods did <br />that dark figure stalk <br />you, gun in hand? <br /> <br />If only that barrel <br />would have kept <br />quiet it's muzzle <br />instead of telling <br />its last lie to you <br />lonesome and lost <br />triggered your truth <br />your link to this world <br />slave to your notions <br />the last one to feel <br />deft fingers which penned <br />your saving grace <br /> 2006<br /><br />Phillip Michael Sawatzky<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/timber-wolf/
