This is a powerful day.

This is nice enough for a winter day. The meek December Sun lies off to the southwest. I stand on the moist earth of this “property” I have found myself on. I have drifted from Chaos to this Soil.

The earth seems solid enough under my bare feet but this is not the Song it sings me. This is passing ground. Topsoil here has always moved in during one seasonal flood to be carried off with the next. This has been the way of this place. Even the plants and beasts have only settled briefly and then moved on.

The Spirits tells me that this land was not much discussed by the Old People. The fruits and the game less plenty and the water less clean than other local offerings.

Some folks gave pause here but it wasn’t until the Poisoned People arrived that this place became “Property”. This was once a dairy. Then a portion of that was sold off and this house was built in 1952. It stands proudly surrounded by elm trees that have grown large but without plan or wisdom. They have preferred Growth for Growth’s sake to Strength. Clusters of limbs sprawl out from weak branches. The heavy snows of late winter bring can down entire boughs. The gutters are torn from the front. I patched a hole in the garage roof last spring. Our big birdcage had to scrapped after two successive Spring storms fell high branches.

This is the way of Reckless Growth.

Out in the weather, the calm winds send warning. I listen with my body. I feel these Songs through my bare feet. We have become too much head and have lost track of body. A head without a body ceases to live. Man without Earth also perishes. We cannot live in the Sky, alone.

We have to come down.

I can hear the Screams. Do you? It is fucking loud. If you are deaf to it, perhaps you need to take off your shoes. More likely, you need to put down your phone. More likely, you need to Stop.

You need to Listen.

I see the Darkness on the faces that will betray me. I understand this is the time to choose wisely the members for our Tribe. The bad growth is heavy and the great boughs are about to fail.

This will be a difficult time.

This is a Siege.

I have seen the old trenches of the Great War overgrown and lying placid in France and Belgium. The Sun has reclaimed them for Life.

Similarly, the trenches of the New War will someday lay placid but we may lay with them.

This seems likely though this is not yet Written.

The new trenches are not dug between Tribes or even Nations. They are dug within us. It remains to be seen whether we can climb out. So far, History has shown us that some of us can.

Others cannot.

Or will not for fear they will be revealed as who they are.

And many of us who have climbed out were quickly slaughtered by the Poisoned Men still in the trenches.

This is where we are. I speak this way to you not to be fancy. My Truth does not read like an Owner’s Manual.

Words are Lies.

Poetry is Truth.

Outside, in Poetry, I ask for guidance. I know I face the Difficult. There will be Plans and there will be Life and rarely will these two be in agreement.

This War will be hard. There will be those who remain in the rear. After the battles, they will come to gather the words to sell to the armies that remain. They will continue to do so until the slaughter each other completely. Then the sword gatherers will themselves starve.

Our neighborhood turkey flew on our garage roof to watch the sunset with us. It is December 26th 2019. The Sun has finished its journey into the night and is now coming back to us.

This is a powerful day.

The sunset brings Truth. I know it to be Truth because it does not bend to please me. I know it to be Truth because it is both Terrible and Beautiful.

We need to climb out of these trenches. We need to find our Brothers across enemy lines. We need to leave the swords in the Dirt. Leave to the sword gatherers these worthless relics of our Great Mistake.

Then, together, we need to turn to the Sun.

Because, one way or the other, the Sun will come to reclaim our lost Soul.

This Darkness is a branch that cannot hold.

It will fail.

These troubled times…

This troubled Land…

Passing Ground.

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