In The Upper Bedroom of A Vermont Country-House -poem

In the quiet hours of my solitude
the wind whispers upon the orange leaves
of a crisp, clear Fall in Vermont.
beyond this room
mother has woken her children of the night
who scramble upon the algae-covered stones
down the climbing hill
beside the breathing river
veining its glorious crystal life
through the forest
She does not provoke me to sleep.
The open-eyed moon
spotlights my face
beckons the light in my eyes.
The third story
of this house
reminds me no less of home
where I am distant
from the people there
as I am
5,400 miles away.
When eyes are shut
the pulse of the river is heard
It speaks to my blood
I feel still
frozen as glass
and languid
caught breathless in my hope
to hear the sound of silence
of my creator
whom I civilized myself from.
Forgetting the life on an L.A. city-dweller
one can embrace themselves
without consenting time
for its fee.
The air lends me crisp clarity
the boughs of the tree,
forgiveness.
My will is not desiring
to find means
to fill the space
with clutter.
Here
I am closer to the heart of the world
far more connected to the ones I love
than in the condensed mechanical streets of L.A.
and I find myself
for once
standing still.