past the
fresh turned up dirt
of plowed field,
the trees beckon.
beneath their shadow
lies the challenge.
what fears lurk beyond?
Moon,
bright and beautiful,
caresses you
with a phantom touch:
soothingly magical,
but
not
really
here.
what fears lurk within?
i turn,
compelled by the acrid
pull of the hearth.
to drink my tea,
and dream.
theDeprevation 