Pisaries Creator

not on my own, not on my way,

to a place I’ve never been,

coming into view from the hill,

high speeds passing slower ones,

get out of the way, gotta get out of the way,

there’s a place I need to be,

it doesn’t have a timestamp or date,

no name either for the sign,

look for a familiar shrub or tree,

I can’t see into the darkness,

that’s not a house, too far away to know, for sure,

little old woman sitting inside, weaving or whittling

a piece of wood to its skinniest,

veiny pale and numb fingers,

moving for any kind of warmth it will provide,

forgot the mittens, no time for a hat,

nothing behind me, not blocking me,

a space to call my own.