What’s Left

It does not matter

when on a path through the lush

forged from eons long shed,

and sunken,

and spread.

 

It does not matter

when you come to a root-knotted fork,

and leaning this way then that,

see but narrow-cleared paths

and wonder, “Cleared by who?”

“When? Why?”

“How?”

“Which?”

 

flower

It does not matter

with your nose in the mud,

and the worms at your heels,

where the right or the left might bear

the imaginations of a keener being.

 

It does not matter

but to press,

even while ground sinks away.

What’s left is to push

through this ancestral lush

along whatever path

that you might forge,

to wherever you sprout.

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