Trails

Alone in a wood where no  
path is laid, my axe hangs  
from a ramshackle hook some  
miles back. Time does  
not participate here  
surrounded and shaped by  
things of root and stem - the  
viscera of the earth. Thorns break  
skin, ivy's vile touch of  
circumstance, foxes snarl and  
crunch leaves making their  
way to the creekbed. What was  
once a home for us now seems  
foreign in a world living right  
next door. We must make  
trails to feel comfortable. We  
must have the familiar bouquet of  
asphalt in our lungs. Without  
shoes to adorn us, we might trip,  
tumble, and bleed. The quiet  
disturbs us. It reflects. And we  
are not okay with who we
see in the mirror.