Refuge

by Rick Kuenning

What does it mean to look out of this house

Into the barren forest, through a window,

This fine house where we choose to rest,

In the mountains, the night sky so dark,

Our eyes seduced, the wide Milky Way?

Trees. The transient wind makes its way.

The few leaves move in silence. Branches

Bare, the trunks gray, soft white stripes.

Cryptic puzzle. The far, faint silhouette of

The pale mountains, blue, the silver sky.

An oak stands sentinel over this haven,

Disrupting the old fence, tangled wire,

Moss green posts, sunken reminders,

Rotted boards lingering on living bark,

The forlorn boundary of quiet, peace.

The cold wind. Wild grasses wave gently,

Gold, tufted, graceful as a palace garden,

Leaves and stalks remembering summer,

Bowing before the keen scythe of winter,

The cruel, intent hand of time and regret.

After decades as an expatriate in Europe, Rick Kuenning lives in western North Carolina. His work reflects a keen interest in nature, art, culture, and religious studies. It also draws on a long career in international relations and national policy. His creativity is often sparked by dialogue with other poems. He is awed by nature, angered by injustice, and moved by the stories of those whose voices are not heard. He reads widely, enjoys cooking, and listens to classical and popular music. His poems are forthcoming in Apricity Magazine, Cantos, El Portal, I-70 Review, Medicine and Meaning, Mount Hope Magazine, Perceptions Magazine, The Phoenix, Rue Scribe, Shark Reef, Slab, Steam Ticket, and Variant.