Oregon seems to be a nice little vortex in which I can spend a lot of time.  For instance I’ve been taking part in a group called NEST where we search for signs of Red Tree Voles in various timber sales and proposed timber sales.  So, I’ve been in the woods again for the past month and a half, and it’s been great and a little harrowing.
So, eventually I’ll catch you all up but until then here is a new poem.

Bondage knot

I had a dream last night
About an unconnected thread.
It was tied in a knot
Thrown over a tree,
Then crimped and cringed,
Rubbed and roughed,
Eventually unknotted then knotted again.

And then it was pulled and pulled and pulled.
Our live are like these lines
We keep repeating to each other.
A thread unbroken,
Lies in the words unspoken.

If we are but a thread
In a tapestry of humanity,
The present crawling through the holes of instant.
When one is so distant.
Not weaved nor knotted nor braided,
Not hitched nor threaded nor stitched,
But frayed or cut and jaded.

It could be a web (of community instead),
Or even less complicated,
If only that’ls what I willed it to be.
I understand the entropy at the end.
Dissolution is where the earned pattern
Must ultimately be rend.
And in disrepair we will try to mend.
To prevent the tear,
To defend or extend the expectancy of the end.

Idealism is not a good cure for monotony.
A thread once broken is hard to see passed its faults.
And the reason to be,
Must never come free.
Or else we would soil
Where it is we must toil.
And then our lines would coil,
Make what was uncertain
Become certain.
And what was meant not to be,
To be.

So weave the broken with the unbroken.
Speak the speech once thought, unspoken.
Sneak away to the dark and
See the way to the spark.

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