Isolated in all directions 
from distraction.
Only ink can speak 
softly of what life 
a reasonable person writes
 without revealing anything.
Breath comes in a loud gasp
  grasping for balance.
Locust thorn pierces my palm 
 and the mind scream is eerily calm
  quiet as the trees.
Up here where the wind spins
gusts move simple shrines 
  of tipped twigs 
in the duff, then offer replacements.
A handful of thrown leaves 
    is sculpture, this place is alive.
 Only ink speaks softly 
of what life a reasonable person
 could write
   without revealing everything.

The small pines whisper,
  “We came here after the fire.
 Our mother died.”