How I long to wander winter winds;
snow-covered eye shapes topping
landscapes to some extend
at different levels.

The cabin lights are mine, all right;
their hazy shades spray spheres.
The entry’s rhombus represents
by pane our earthly peers.

How I long to limp through woodland’s
leaves; black-dyed twilight dusking
highlights to some point
at diverse places.

The poem pines point out, all right,
a wholeness of the weeping.
The guy ropes, out of foliage trees,
run through our safety’s keeping.

Spinning off a black-and-white roll of film,
running reviews in my head; knowing it
more or less narrowed by heart.


M.J.C.A. Stout Vuurland, 11-11-2004