‘what of tomorrow?’
Being a new day.
When my boots still carry the same fool.
Six days from Sunday,
Waist high in the nature of things.
Searching for signs of spring.
humming to myself.
Lost in a forest of irrelevant thought.
The traces of others…cannot be bought.
Six ways from Sunday,
my native heritage.
Has brought me here before.
Struggling to find a friendly open door.
Could easily be…
another seven days past snow-blind.
The trail fades fast.
With many weeks more…
In all likelihood,
I will still be looking for a friendly door.