a quiet sort of mutiny

sentinel these stands

disarming in triumph
serene argent sibilance
calling out only to me 
in impatience but also
in conscience, I know--

I write to no one I know 
not to expect a response
I know "no" is in itself
a sentence--all I can do 
is marvel, I can't explain 
no--I 'm already letting go  
------------------------------------

Pic: Baker Woods in the snow.