by Brent Porter


I walk

towards solitude,

into solitude,

become solitude.

Alone with me, at last

I wonder at how I am.

What I am

why I am.

But I remain silent.

I won’t answer.

Rustling black leaves of the trees

chime with a clear ring

as they wave and embrace the wind.

Grey blankets on black night hide

the silhouettes of the gods

whose eyes wink at me knowingly

as they look down smiling


goading me forward.

I continue on the trail

as the soft earth beneath me

kneads my feet,

my legs.

And in my mind

I unknot again, realizing that the moment

is the moment

is the moment.

Too soon, murmurs crowd again


like little hammers drumming away.

Shattering solitude,

shattering tranquility.

Those pristine moments,

the rarest of all.