Sometimes I paint, untranslatable words

Engelengeduld (Dutch): the patience of an angel.


No angels here


No trees either

except for the stand of them

that used to protect

the now fallen farmhouse

from the wind.

The house is gone,

the wind remains. The road

is still narrow, rutted, rock and dirt.

Looking into the rearview mirror

the message is clear:

No use looking back

if you do

you’re not going to see much

until the dust settles

and even then

it’s just a narrow road,

one you traveled down

and there’s enough dust

in your lungs, tucked in the seams

of your clothes and your car

to remind you

of who and where

you’ve been.



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