Scar

I still have a scar

on my finger,

arthritic dreams

and occasional nightmares

Cast along, beside an

ice-strewn river,

with such shallow

wraps against the cold

As seasons seem to spin

through their chaotic

rhapsodies of mind and spirit,

oblivious to their ends

I try my best to

trudge on, toward some

uncertain path, always

in fear of falling

Tripping and tumbling over

half-buried illusions of death,

fingers, like my own,

reaching up to grab hold

Or waiting to awaken me

by tapping at the

frozen windows to all

that I have ever known.