Somewhere along the trail, this
Flashlight becomes a femur, and I
Take that for a sign. Like when moss
Grows on the north side of trees
Except when it grows on all sides.
Or when the Big Dipper cannot
Be spotted through those freakish
Superstorm clouds. Should I mention
Sleepwalking runs in my family?
All I can say is that each day
Is a cool copse of virgin spruce
Where I forage and grow musky.
And before long, my fingers leaf out.
I become rooted beside a brook
That refuses to babble my name.
Eventually, it speaks when I bare
My spindly branches for winter.
It murmurs – All I’ve ever wanted
Was to find my way back home.




Harold Whit Williams is guitarist for the critically acclaimed rock band Cotton Mather.  His newest collection of poems, Backmasking, is winner of the 2013 Robert Phillips Poetry Chapbook Prize, forthcoming from Texas Review Press in early 2014. His first collection, Waiting For The Fire To Go Out, is available from Finishing Line Press, and his poems have appeared in numerous literary journals. He lives in Austin, Texas.   You can visit his site at dailyworkersongbook.com.


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