Over the Treetops

a heavy fog lifts and I can see forever,

my neighbor's homes and beyond,

inside the universe of doubt that hangs

over all our heads like some albatross

or Achille's Heal that will not mend;

trees drop their seeds onto the ground

as if some fall ritual of raping, expecting

seedlings in the Spring for perpetuation

that will take years to disappear if and

only if mankind decides to live here;

rats scurry along mental avenues and

backroads in a vain attempt to avoid

highways of anxiety and breakdowns

that seem to occur more with age,

and as the sun warms the day, we

return inside to the safety of thoughts

and the endless array of youthful ideas

that lies precipitously close to an

aged induced religious awakening.

20 October 2020