I came upon a kindred slant
When in a recent forest.
I’d fallen, like a fresh felled tree
Like a nail in a coffin, with a thud,
And I lay still as death,
And as frozen as a February day.
This was indeed my kindred angle
Prone and horizontal at a full ninty degrees.
I resembled a canvas mat,
Pleased, I had somewhere
To wipe my sleet.
I slowly arose to my stumbled feet.
Kindred, because I saw at once
As the little persons see.
C 2018-19 Christopher Thompson
All rights reserved