You’ve been here before, walked this path
under branches hung with brilliant rust
and yellow— all those moldering leaves
like torches lit for their glow, like lamps
whose wicks are dipped in tallow. For company,
only the nearby gurgle of a stream, the even
crunch of gravel. Solitude’s silver and blue
arrow streaks toward you, lodging like a piece
of ice under your skin. Fragments of salt
that lace the wind. Memory of others
come and gone, their spirits nudging you
toward wherever it is you need to be.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.