The tracks left behind
are more pristine even
than the blanket white
fallen in the perfect,
by chance, empty column
flanked by ever-greens
as the brightly colored
racers soar, glide down
the awkward angled slope
yet remain in the hinterground
unable to grasp focus
even from the simple frame
of twisted twigs and wire
much less the ancient oaken table
that anchors the floor to here,
this house to this mountain,
and even unadorned and barren
spells
The ceiling beams
cross like those below:
only incidentally,
and the muted ballet,
hearth-inspired,
spider-webs into a thousand lives,
muraled across the breadth
of this vastness, natural,
and this forest, unobscured.
The obviousness of
the handmade
and tradition
is no bother,
reaching for a volume
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