Like a book mark,
a fallen tree.
I heard the echo threreof
and fell too,
marking the place in which
I left off
like so many other pages
cleft in the forest.
Tell me again
why these memories gather moss,
bear termite bits,
and sit like cairns in conversations.
Let me know
How to live
after I rise above the imprint
and gather its shadow
like a jacket.
How do I lumber along this path?
Seeing forward, glancing back,
giving ground behind and before,
I set my face like flint,
grateful for shafts of light
and the affect thereof.
Another fall into grace.