Mute with thoughts

I feel the distance now that there is between the graves of my ancestors and myself. The bones of my lates.
The place where my namesake lies.
And it wears with guilt.
When I feel them long for me.
When I feel it's time to go home.

So I've grown mute lately with thoughts.
Such thoughts, and all the others...
Far too many to converse much.
It lingers on my search for replies and repertoire.
The short years, they've really changed me.
The old letters to myself taped up; I hardly notice them...

Crack. The lightening shudders with - a thunderstorm in January.
The strangeness of it.
The plains must be thinking of the same past.
And of the coming spring too soon.
And I must be long dis-acquainted with my mind.



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