In this hamlet I am resting at once.
Conifers litter my feet.
At my back is bark and a hundred years.
Towards heaven the tower’s many scales crawl, in stride with my thoughts.
Large Egyptian fans of an Earthen hue outstretch everywhere around me.
At my peak, is a woven headdress crafted by life’s most thoughtful artisans.
Past chiefs gawk at my crown in envy, still righteous.
The lake’s nourishing veins have grown a pallet for my whim.
As a cocoon cradles the butterfly and a hill warms strongholds of ant, my spot of pure fate houses me smiling, while I am without home.
Cogs of anticipation click a chasm’s echo at the legs of one great journey. My mind rushes with the resounding current of a bell tower unseen. Unable to consider anything but ringing.
Hemingway asks me his question over liquor and cigars.
He knows not that I am a child and I answer, “It tolls, for no one in particular, I presume.”
My drunken acquaintance leaves, murmuring, and insists I gaze upon the shadows lingering on trees’ many surface.
They seep through the seams in my mind’s door and pervade all things, as night creatures always do.
So within my celestial bed, I slink further and pull the sheets of soil above my head.
this is a test