Monday, November 14, 2016

Peregrination in Causation

The woods is where the lines get wavy,
white pines rising from the hollow of dead leaves.
Afternoon November shadows cross the open meadow,
fresh horseshit on the old dirt road—

the golden path through mountain laurel,
a family walking by the drought-dry pond,
wide expanse of river bordered by a nuclear solar reflection,
ancient steps leading toward the way through cedars to intending sun.

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