Will we

find each other

again?

The mist surged

down the mountain

in cresting wave

to finger fern and

moss and

foxglove,

to curl over

stone.

Monochopsis –

the subtle and

persistent feeling

of being out of place

in the world.

Flock-incised,

the path looped back

and forth

through wildsome,

wildflowered turf;

through beauty;

into obscurity.

Into dream.

Will we find

each other

again?

 

— C.Birde, 6/19