We’re still here. With the pulling of the ocean, we weather along with the sand dunes hoping for a break in time. But it passes us by, relentless by nature, it passes us by, without warning, like a thief in the night. We steal each breath and reserve the knowledge that it could be our last, it can always be our last. Generations crowding our youth push forward, and out of the way we drift, like the changing of the guards, we step down and pass the burden. “Make your mark,” they say, but how can we afford to make anything? In this day and age we have the right to assume the worst, but we’re still here, in the wake of turmoil, we plunge ahead, ready and willing to take anything on.
Where Yellow Rocks Lie I know she waits for me, majestic and lonely, she waits. Adorned with new growth, mini pines replace charred poles, boiling pools burn my toes, a symbol of freedom seen fishing perfectly perched in a hiding tree. Chained rocks welcome snow, like a new bride in her white dress, they glow radiance when first jeweled. On a day long mile where valleys look to forests, bones of prey pollute my step, a reminder of my vulnerability. In sleeping nights she reoccurs to me, chasing away time with enhanced visions of beauty. A keeper of promises to keep in my title, but as my ties grow tighter, and my roots dig deeper, I wonder how much longer she will have to wait?
A journal by Kirk Niemann:
The Apple and the birdcage 