Open

Open your footpaths, for are we not all travelers of the road?
I say to death with your walled gardens, to death with your gates,
to death with all the looming towers of 900 rooms for a dozen men;
I say, let’s put back the prairie grass, let’s call home the deer
and have them roam, shoveling the forests with trodding hooves
so we may stroll behind their journeys, hearing trees purr.   

That’s all

Two legs, that are columns, your roof of bone, blood, sinew,
housing your pantheon, your gods that were born from burnt meals,
falls off your bicycle, windows you leapt from, drainpipes
slid down, hearts your broke with unkind words, papers you tore
and launched off bridges you walked
in the night.

Return

When I  opened the door

It was like revisiting a book I had set aside

Trying to remember the plot and the main character,

Myself, and my part in the story

Let’s Get Going On Our Way

Wonderment shakes my hand, and escorts me down the spiral stair.
I am eager to meet the ghosts and echoes and shadows that linger there.
I am wistful, for what I leave behind, but gentle past waves farewell;
I am letting all completed and unfinished projects rest upon the mantle.

Light of Day

Secluded by the tired night

Weary eyes no longer bright

She journeys to her quiet place