Poetry

Step 4 (64.)

Tall trees stand astride a winding path,
each trunk holding futures in its branches.
No squirrels flit to and fro,
no birds sing paeans or odes.
A stillness permeates the scene,
and each step of the somnambulist
scatters dust and ash to mingle with the floating mist.
Untouched, left behind, these woods offer naught but signs
that time creaks ever onward despite its lack of vessel.
If one could peek inside our sleepwalker’s eyes,
they would see the same visions cycling by:
an acorn falls into an ashy plot
and transforms into a mighty oak
in fast motion,
foresight a guarantor
of at least this possibility.
Leafy, strong, and beckoning,
like a forest nymph-turned-goddess
who causes wanderers to whimper in hopeless desire.
First, the forest;
then,
the fire.
Green and orange lemniscate.
Or maybe, a gyre.

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