but the plumes of dark smoke
would bring unwanted attention.
So I go away to the lonely place,
my cabin in the wilderness.
Late autumn winds blow around and through log spaces
but do not flutter the ravaged edges of my flattened faith as the daily breeze at home has done.
A riotous crowd of geese makes a big production of flying overhead.
Here now the woodstove crackles me comfort,
but outside the small windows there is a whisper of tiny crystals flung and falling, hitting the surfaces of dry wood and dead leaves that have given up resistance.
In the stillness of the many trees and no people
I feel, if not the healing, at least the resting of the ravaged heart.
All I have to do is feed the stove and keep a book handy.
The woods will do the rest.
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