Darkness befriends us, the shelter of trees.

Even when stark shell-shocked centers petrified,

they stand willing.  Afterwards, gently breeze- blown,

they are again solace sources.


So this moment palpably lives,

flesh lending warmth, steam-soft.

Hands funnel through like traffic,

fog-caught, lost and seeking.


Hands become thresholds,

paths recognized, appreciated, by-passed.


The lone continue journeying towards home,

exhaust, a trail left, mingling like sighs.



By Stephen Mead