uphill over the skeletons of roots
clotted with dried earth i stalk,
not sure yet if i’m on the right path
but sure i had to come this way uphill,
always uphill, by the curve of the lake,
hot dense air hanging over the surface,
dulling the reflection of a too-bright sun
on my thoughts, which, broken,
flutter on a non-existent breeze:
blind mice, caged by a fate
with a sense of the melodramatic,
caught at the water’s edge and afraid
to look back;
we skim the surface like those heavy
dragonflies, biting at the bitter air,
as significant, as singular as the dried
leaf from last year’s autumn, which
hangs still on an oak dripping over the shallows
and brushes against my cheek as i pass,
whispering of things which have not yet come.