Snowshoes in the Sand

If my reflection came easily, it would be built upon mirrored waters.

Bathed in twilight’s meandering sun.

Riding in on a high horse.

Several hands high.

Looking back would be nothing but…

an unconditional, good-bye.

The miles ahead?

An easily read map with routes I could choose or deny.

Yet, contemplation, a plethora of shine and showers, not so simple to define.

Its inventory, a snowshoe in the sand.

Too basic to understand.

Repugnant, regurgitated, bliss.

Straight lines to a closed fist.

The resolution?

A well-rounded, linear, first kiss.


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