Poetry |
Paths
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We children romped on deer paths through woods
cloven hooves marked sandy soil to river’s edge. Now overgrown, a thicket of thorns I can’t find the way back to the water. Three thousand miles and scores of years from youth at San Bruno Mountain, tall grasses choke the berm. I’m tempted to push on, but maybe Snakes are hiding under foot? I turn back unable to loop the Eucalyptus near a wild strawberry patch where a bee swarm stung my five-year-old decades ago In younger days, paths pointed clearly ahead— ethical paths, stable paths, risky ones too. Now paths dead-end full of weeds and widow’s threads. |