L C Vieira
'Unworthy of this wilderness,
a majesty too great for kings,
lakes and rivers, wide as dreams,
moving faster than my words;
I'm humbled by this wilderness,
I have so little left to hold.
Few are these last provisions;
I am but a guest out here.
I am so small beneath these tall trees;
some fall hard as others rise.
High winds lift them up 'round me;
drum beat step in their own time.
Bright sun sneaks to hide each day,
so stars more brilliantly can shine.
Dancing native spirit skies,
calm us now, these anxious souls.
Three Thirty Nine A.M.
Three thirty-nine a.m.
A growing madness drowns the quiet,
heat humming through the vents,
the cold night mocking its attempt,
and I awake, still awake,
pound my pen to you.
Where does my practiced peace go in the night,
and all that contentment you talk about?