After the burden of travel
I return to the evergreen valley
with winter light along the rim.
Without wonder the soul becomes weary,
needing the air that stirs the high trees,
cleansing the passages clogged
by the dull weight of repetition.
One lightning stroke of imagination
and the body, racked by the failure to love,
comes alive with original intent,
tearing down the fences of ignorance,
clawing through the debris of vanquished beauty
to the dawn horizon opening in the eastern sky.
Reading of “Original Intent”