I’ve thought long and stiffly
about what turn of fortune
brought you to me. No answer
speaks from behind the trees,
no starlight to navigate by,
so until that ancient beauty
slips forward from the ether,
I’ll wrestle the fray dutifully
and silently along the riverbed,
from crevice to crevice, cold,
but not holding onto hope.
Whatever the path, it lies
waiting ahead of every turn,
never gaining, never fading,
just there among the bushes,
anxious for a chance step.



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