Vagabond's Portrait

It’s colder here; the limbs stiff and skeletal,

cracking my knuckles on the stumps of trees,

I question the thought as it leaves my lips,

though away from home, not afraid to slip,

it leaves in one breath,

utters dripped with agony and regret;

soon enough, the sweet cream soothed my lips,

big-horned sheep clung on for long too,

their hooves deciding the fate of misery,

yet I was balancing on a much bigger plane,

tripping every day.

Stone yellow and honeysuckle,

I hear you, still, I can hear you miles away,

the petals of poppies on the hill still knocking on my window,

a syrupy stick and the kiss of a pine needle,

and I can taste the butterscotch bark still dripping from your fingertips,

how I’ve painted your portrait on every peak,

I’ve scattered grass seeds over the road,

certain I’ll find a way back without my scope,

I’ve sheathed my weapon, the battle now goes unspoken.

Stumps that have been shocked by my bruised knuckles and bumps,

they’ve grown into willows weeping on their knees,

using their limbs to ensure I cannot breathe,

soon cushioned far away by a ground too familiar,

the imprints of my shins and knees made perfectly for me,

a field of cacti grew where I learned to balance on my feet,

without a chain of misery or sheep looking down scowling at me,

scouring a surface no longer suited to hold my perfect cups of tea,

or to hold the life once vibrant within me.

I’ll return with a little less vigor each time,

but will lie robust on your hills before I go,

I’ll return in the summer where, up high, there is sure to be snow,

and as heaps melt into small,

I’m sure it is the place I will begin to grow.