Winds whistle
through old-growth timber;
the scent of pine
comforts me as I laze on a bed
of needles, dreaming.

He walks alongside the riverbank,
parallel paths soon to intersect.
I cannot stop him.
He knows this, steps into
glacial waters that show no mercy.

I wake, no screams, no tears;
only the whistling remains.
Over the pines
his spirit glides,


Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved


About cjchaffin

Wordsmithing is my passion. I eat, sleep, and breathe words and phrases, only to regurgitate them and pray that they are better off than when I first ingested them.
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