the walk

nothing so simple as a walk

among these souls, 

towered and adorned with

the shawls of life, 

letting what little sun

bask them and you

in some emergence of truth. 

their edges muted now

by different masks

as they reach up but

look downward upon

you through such

silly gauze, but 

that's the way of things. 

there is solemnity in

the quiet way in which

things change when we

shoulder the precipitations

of worries and evils, 

and just let her do

her alchemic work on us. 

the Bride is going softly, 

you know this;

she has to blood-knuckle mine

for thoughts the way one must

sift the waters to

extract those precious minerals

that are left to keep. 

a walk is a way, an

amble is a soft march

toward those rises 

you keep before you, and

the ice-snap of breaths you

take are reminders to

just keep plodding. 

nothing bad is behind us, 

really; maybe scattered

by breezes, or crushed

underfoot into peaceful particles

that feed our forest bed, 

waiting for the shawls

to be shed finally. 

then comes the fruits of all

that cold waiting and long walkings: 

a bloom, a greening of the eyes, 

a memory deposited as seeds that 

break the surface and the 

Bride is there, in full, one thousand

flowered considerations