Michael Munas (michaelboy) wrote,
Michael Munas

Where folks go

I wrote this several years ago and it reminds me of the precious times I spent alone when I was young. It could have just as easily been a cardboard box I once had or a hideaway shelf in my mom's linen closet(or "press" as she called it).

Where the boughs of the pines hang so low
to reach the almost-touching carpet of needles
I lay for hours, safely between two quiet horizons
singing my wishes to tinder-dry blackened twigs
and whitened pine-sap, dried in graceful contrast

Silly boy, what are you thinking?

There are things we wish
There are things we miss
But in wishing and missing
We are yet and always:
Almost touching
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