The morning brings me peace and joy.
The sun comes and I write to the ages.
History exists even in Alaska.
My primal connection, and primitive jog
on the streets of the Arctic, has not quieted in passion.
Girl, get out of here if you aren't tough enough.
Deep in last night, I woke from a dream.
I was helping a family with a dead woman.
Their matriarch had passed and we squirmed.
I sat on the porch of their old home.
Her husband had died just a few months earlier.
No body escapes, accept lovers.
I go out in to the day
breathing life and pondering death.
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