any outdated certainty runs weak
like a walker’s grasp
as the dog,
a greyhound or maybe the more reliable
retriever, momentarily splits & in that second
of letting go
heads toward the muddied field
with little consideration
of whether it is best to stay or to (momentarily) flee.
Oh muddied footprints.
Oh round circular trees. Such beauty
& freedom. Such feeling. In one split-second
the charcoal spread of morning,
the way a day leans toward grey.
Ribbon -swirl along illuminated horizon.
What comes afterwards
is anybody’s guess.
The pause
a mid-point.
Consider how a life might play out.
What is constant
in a moment?
A tree, the cement & tangle, the ability to let go.
Storm & swivel & stream & doubt,
scribble of ribbons, no bungle or reassurance—
imagine the self,
you— rooted, blossoming.