We are of separate destinations
turning back against the thrust
of our lives as every braid
has a raveled end. But where
can we turn but the known
and lost, you, Plainswoman,
burying seed as futures — rain
as prayer, casting lots. And though
I am vexed, nay captive of the sudden
vast that spans my gaze at every rise,
I, woodland born, distrustful
of the meadow, spurning the glade,
hunch in the culvert, dig roots
as given, take water in my hands.
Image: Akin Cakiner on Unsplash
The metaphor of the journey and of journeying is important in your work Devon. I think.
Seems to be at the moment. But in all honesty, what else is there other than latching on to fading things as if struggling up a fraying rope.