Out Back By Myself

So, when the stresses and demands of my small world beleaguer me, when silly easements commandeered by men in emperor's clothes, when, just before the hour where the night is at its darkest and daylight seems like an audacious but a foregone hope, when lines carved on my face cannot be persuaded to return to right side up position even for just one small moment, that is when I must lie down, close to the Linden tree out back, upon the marble cold of yore, with the nocturnal buzz of a male Junebug for dear company crawling brisk of foot over my hairy chest, wishing it were a she bug and taking comfort in the creaks, the melodious moans of bark rubbing against bare bone twigs arranged as V's just for the nights of early spring, when sap will rise and overflow so unobtrusively reflecting yellow pallor of aged Camembert, the old Moon caught with its own sticky-beak nose in the shadows of rust-coloured leaves and new shoots dressed in the green of confidence, I hurt, so deep inside, not seen by others or my newly found and stoic compagnons, the pain one sweet emotion bubbling up to reach the surface with the will to break a fragile skin, formed by the lethargy of smoldering habit destined to remain a tough coccoon sealed on itself yet there is happiness, a light shines into darkness, a conquistadore, and, before too long the owl arrives, her wisdom draped around a feathered neck, her pride expressed in easy grace and silence in the depth of searching eyes. My head averts the imminence, I gaze into the distant stars, Big Bear blessed by the jolly gods to live immortal on the Milky Way, he sees as nothing secret can be kept on earth, and those who passed before, they know about my deeds and thoughts, the self behind the barn and on the bowl, the time that peers were sought and found as willing company, the weeds of smoke, to signal that relief was to be sealed by symbols of a special kind, they know and when it's time for me to go I shall, without a bit of shame use prying eyes to pass my sneering judgment with great joy... I sit, the owl has spoken so it seems, my joints feel free and lightness takes the place of heavyness within, it is not often that I hear the song of melancholy inside my hopeful heart, it's when you'll find me under all the leaves of the old Linden tree, out back. It's where I live again, tied for a time to the umbilicus of faith inside my soul