|
||||
the grit of my search settling with the undisturbed heavier stones, or maybe shoveled off like helicopter seed where the chaos of the day retrieves itself. Maybe the torn edges of my own shadow snaggered by locust thorns, leaves of thought hiding from rituals of gain and loss. And the next stranger's trespass will make no sense of my confusion of footprints. The crisp nettles vibrating in the breeze will have disguised my voice; the thatch-work already sprung back to the memory of itself (the trees still leaning, though, as if they still see me).  |
|
|||
