meandering, we circle

lake’s edge — by day’s end

we feel hardened — soles

impact pebbled earth —

familiar yet unknown;

at times we falter, stall —

fall far from crumbling

skies: our bodies become

stones — broken open —

beneath: why incessant?

some stop — seek softer

paces — or stomp ground —

bend to listen, bare-souled

as dusky-fluted birds find

their nests, as new stars refill

vacant velvet seats.

still, saplings quiver — sway —

hidden midst stout older

growth with barks scarred —

and limbs lost — mysterious

mercies still stand — root-deep

in never-darkened earth.

There, in whatever forms

of spaciousness we take —

we too will return — ready

to renew — and remake.

 . . . . .

susan.powers.bourne