el verano acaba
circulando la cabeza
en picada

fértil secreto
que limpia su meta
de olvido

ya es hora
de sellar señales
en ceniza


Shadow Routed Folk

Your quaint country road
snakes unwinding through woods
leaving no not one
none of your troubles behind--
as they drag like a vintage
trailer on four hissing flat tires

Mark my word: mark it well:
trouble will spring ahead
-- stop you dead in your tracks
at each hard hairpin turn
staring pinholes into dim delusion
like a startled young doe
gleaming damp-bright but brittle
in the blinding headlights

Every crossroad & fork
will test your resolve
in a clutter of signs
that confuse all direction
with circles & arrows & pithy
commands that defy comprehension
yet demand full attention
in clear contradiction
with the long-cherished heart
of your harsh-hammered inner conviction

(Still you plunge on ahead
into thick tangled night
through the moon's dented swelling
& spilled orange wash
as it pools deep about
the fresh-felled oak scars...)