By: Linda M. Crate 

i sit on the
edge of a lost horizon etched
only in days of old
wondering
for the day i may be discovered
or am i the bones
dried and withered that no one will
remember when the ice
is all shattered,
and the water flows into the sun
trees and roses with their thorns to cut
into the heart of the wood?
will i be discarded
like a piece of refuse?
sometimes i wonder as i sit here
gazing out into the clear blue of the
sky if i were born in
the wrong
century,
and if i were there is no way
to rectify that crime
except to live
in a way to be remembered long after
this horizon is broken into
a new one;
still this is my perch, my home
i don’t know if i could
leave it behind
even if it meant discovering my destiny
in the heights of clouds
what?
i hate change, it’s too comfortable
to remain where i am
don’t want to peel
anymore under all the layers of difficulty
of all the emotions of life and love;
just let me remain
as i always have done.