...Still like the tundra of his soul-
Somewhere in the dark face of this night
coyotes waltz in pale moonlight-
eyes glowing ethereal like lost comets
in some great void time forgot.
The tree hung over his tent was bowing
like its altar was the forest
and its leaves were wind chimes
with some story to tell
and prophecy to fulfill before dawn,
for the sun was his reckoning
and through his zipper
the saddest color in the room.
The saddest, brightest memory
he'd turned his back to and walk from.
Indifference was her name
and she kept him up at night,
sleepless but dreaming.
- Poem by Stephen Clock
(book of poems to be released soon)