Ashen footprints mark rocky paths
on mountaintops where
pilgrims shout into the past,
a past where certainty stands.
Questions unasked
roll like rocks, echo empty
down canyon walls into deep
dark pits from whence dry winds
emerge, full of fire,
the cleansing fire that decimates a soul.
Silence.
Still, until
a teardrop falls, another,
and a swallow leaves its nest.
Heat-burst bulbs and rain-soaked seeds
thrust up and out, a timid thrill at first
then glorious hope springs up
like fireweed, victorious.
Gravity pulls me down to the safety net
of the sweet brown ground where
I lie among the daffodils and grass
until I look up to the barren hills from whence I fell
and I have no regrets.
Previously published in Message from the Hidden Lake Vol. 10
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