— for L. Peterson

i don’t know what compels me
forward perhaps back to that dappled
brisk in the woods, or perhaps
the cruel navigation of the sun lodged
on the horizon, here in the broad escape,
where all shadows lean long, long
as the longing for what may have been or
should have been if not for the flicker,
that brief and half-seen flash
in the brush that called to me once and now —
— follow,
for who would not deign to obey
such kindness as a trill of light,
that brief
and half-seen light.

Image: Dieter Pelz on Unsplash

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