There is nothing on this path to hold onto

 

There is nothing on this path to hold onto.

Nothing to commit to heart or memory.

Nothing to make me lighter, wiser more real.

 

Sometimes I’d like to become birdsong,

the branch to branch wing and hop of a chickadee

or brush of wind and light on water.

 

One hand on the smooth bark of a young poplar

stretching skyward, roots reaching down

drawing from darkness and light.

 

Fallen ancient one at my feet, moss covered

hollow and full of moist promise.

Nothing dies here.

 

I stop and watch and this is what I see.

There is nothing on this path to hold onto.

 

 

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5 thoughts on “There is nothing on this path to hold onto

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