Tag Archives: journey

The Long Way

I usually took the long way
starlight or clouds low
or the moon waiting to rise
behind the rag edge of black trees
already the shimmer of it
on the blue black lake.

The long way around anywhere
along the creek
the river edge
the last fenced yard
at the edge of town
tall grasses gold gray
in the light of the town’s last streetlight.

The long way there
lost, they said of me,
Didn’t you want to come?
How could I say yes, I did
but there was a place where
the sidewalk stopped
and became a path
that curved away
into the gray woods.

The long way home, too
Weren’t you tired? they asked of me.
How could I say yes,
but the moon was waiting to rise
behind the rag edge of black trees
and the glimmer was upon the blue black water.

Copyright Kay Winter

Tagged , , , , ,


Did you have to say
that you had gone there
and come back
and were ready to stop
the traveling bus?

This spiral life
isn’t what we come to
it’s how we walk
how we stop from falling
off the place.

Did you have to say
it doesn’t matter?
It’s all that does
this spiral afterlife.
It isn’t what we die for
it’s how we keep
from falling off.

It’s the whirling secret
at the center
the seeds of a thousand flowers
the tips of the grasses
alight with the sun
over the low fence
around our hearts.

Copyright Kay Winter

Tagged , , , , , , ,


Forgive my stumblings
through the landscape of your stony heart.
Forgive my taking a secret road now,
different than the way I came
(ill-compassed, crevassed, misturning).
Having arrived at the gate,
I found it closed
and my key
no longer turning.

Copyright Kay Winter

Tagged , , , , , , , ,


“I refuse to be burdened,” he says.
“With things. Things are empty.
Empty as people.
People with their sneaking looks at the bus stop.
And their worried brows at the door,
standing there,
shifting from foot to foot,
in their grimy tennis shoes
asking me if I want to grab a bite maybe
at the place
just on the corner.

Burdened with their touch,
their arms across my shoulders,
their hands reaching across the breakfast table,
their letters,
and their worthless concern.”

He hoists his pack onto his shoulders,
turns away from the lodge,
toward the mountain,
and begins to climb.

We watch, his father and I,
our hands in our pockets.

“I want to get high enough,” he calls,
looking back,
“Past the tree line.
Past the ridge of clouds that circle the snow.
Up high enough
That I will not burdened with anything.
Not even breathing.”

Tagged , , , ,