there is a river in this valley
pocked with tarry sinkholes
all the possibilities that were on the one side
now lost forever, unseeable

and, on the other side
a way rises as i rise
stripped bare, entering a new country.
thorns tear as I walk
rocks throw themselves on the path
i move them tenderly or impatiently
but moved they must be
brush and
mushrooms, cling
clothe and feed me
the smell, like late-fall cinnamon
rotting leaves and snow
and i rise, i stumble, and i rise
i can see now where i walked, where i fell
i am grateful for the strength of my legs
and the breaking of my heart.
8 December 2020