Longer days have more room for it.
The window divides none of the wind.
No garden better than brown.

But a bearded man comes breathing anyway,
bends with bagged hand behind his bitch
and doesn't even bat an eye.
What misappropriation!

The sun cannot be trusted.
Barren boughs rake my sky.
I am small, small and delicate.


Capricious they may be,
But variety is salubrious.
Things can get so boring.

In wind is possibility.
The sky and I pucker.
Here's everywhere.

Plains empty me of myself,
Brother waves sympathize,
Mountains match my awareness.

Nothing else, no less.
Endlessly I go, caressed,
Leeward over heaven.


Pale wayfarer, lit solely by spare
blades crept in canopy's cracks,
moves anxious, still reverently,
upon matted forest floor.

Genera of the trees he knows by now
and would usually stand and nod,
but necessarily passes posthaste,
denying a heretofore critical air.

For he, in dire hopes of his own,
trains wildly toward some said glade
in which he strives to seed himself
and wait to ride what tree may grow.


Carson Pytell is a poet living in a very small town outside Albany, NY. His work has appeared in numerous venues online and is currently available or forthcoming in print from such publications as Vita Brevis Press, The Virginia Normal, NoD Magazine, Blue Moon Lit & Art Review, Spank the Carp, Crack the Spine, Futures Trading and Gideon Poetry Review, among others.