I am standing here alone,
my back exposed to the crippling cold
as the air blows, the snow comes
to  whips knots through my hair.

You aren't here, nowhere near to this place,
North Face, my mind races.

My feet touch the ground,
all I hear is the deafening sounds,
and my heart pounds, I feel now
I know my way through the dark.

No more fear, it is clear that in this space,
interlace, and my body braces.

I am alone, I am alone, I am alone
I am home

I am alone, I am alone, I am alone
I am home

I am alone, I am alone, I am alone
I am home

I am
alone
I
am
home.

All this sweetness -
just the result 
of the beating
of a billion tiny wings,
hovering over petals,
brushing against pollen,
dancing into maps.

Things that are easier than packing:

1. Bathing cats.
2. Tanning in April.
3. Writing poetry.

There are types of sadness
that are not resolved with
a cup of tea.

Or flowers.

You are travelling in the dark
to places where a map would
be no use to you anyhow.
And oh, how your body grows weary
of walking uphill with arms 
stretched out in every direction.
You are going no where.

The vultures are circling.

Today,
the sky 
is grey 
for all 
the wrong 
reasons.