Path by Allison Grayhurst

I look to the earth,
it is a shadow made
of stone. It turns its
grey-lake eyes to me,
it dreams a white cloud,
communing with trees and
growing things – strong
in their mutual stillness.
I look on the December day
where the private racoon roams
and crows congregate
to threaten a passing form.
The path where the young bird perished
is where no one but my dog and I go.
He sniffs the fresh-fallen snow as squirrels
sit motionless, looking on.
And in this tender wood there is no
division between my heart
and God’s great wing.
There is no time not brushed with beauty.
There is no pavement slush, no hand
that reached out, I would not hold and trust.

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