The simple trails
I used to follow
up into the open meadows and
wild fields of flowers, bone dry
and desert blue.
I walked those trails with you
one hundred times
or more,
kicking up stones, leaving marks, watching
the sky turn, thinking
not thinking
for once.
They say the trails that
run through the heart
can burn themselves
clean, down to the end
of every bad deed.
But I bet it’s not that easy
to forget tenderness
pain, yours and mine
the open wounds
left by the flames and the
consuming desire
to burn.
I wonder:
Could I stumble
blind
back between all the stumps and roots
of us
and submit again
to the soil
with working hands,
meager rations,
and ask for no more.
Could I finally leave the trails
of my heart
to the rains?
