yearning

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here in the winds
the air touches but doesn't leave much more
than memories of its passing
eyes glassing over with death
breath frozen in clouds on a windchill morning
where all the yesterdays seem folding
like a faithless poker player.

I have filled my belly on morsels and mould
and tasted things I should not have, wasted
moments following the wisp into the mires of desires
set aflame by sparks that were only sparks
not the needful conflagrations that wake the land
to grow a better thicket, in time, ashes
impregnating memory with the necessary elements.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
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My eternal thanks to the sources of light and heat that have found me and allowed themselves to be found by, bound to and expounded on at length and sometimes in cryptic comedy.

My love to all. Yes, all.