days of grace
and ones of toil
days of joy
and of consequence uncoil
more quickly than a striking snake
to bite one with but memories
where life once was

a walking poem

i am not proud
nor am i ashamed
i am not modest
nor am i immodest
i am of the scent of a wet dog
i am of the clip-clop of a broken sandal
upon the path
i am of the trees
arching high above the trail
and of the fallen leaves
which lay spent at its sides
my sister scampers underfoot
while brother spins his world
amid the limbs overhead
my father sits, belly to ground
waiting on the hum
of the beginnings
and of the ends
my mother is all around