Monday, June 10, 2013

50 Steps to Thicket

There stirs an edge where bindings,
something so innocuous, falter
that the relief of stepping beyond
surprises and stuns in the gentling

The living cascading with every
open space, wallow, and weft
nothing here confines, demarcates
except where hand has led

What something has brought me 
to this place, the thicket,
measure as I will at times 
the distance that now dissolves

Tremulous whatever that was
that stalled and pressed so
firm as hardened heart
neatly savaging my own wild

It is as if I have traveled 100
miles to arrive at this place
(not just 50 and counting steps)
and in no time bowering down

This less than tangle more than
epiphany surmounts the ease 
of every confounded convenience
siphoning us to slumber in our ways


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