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.
A well-rounded, linear, first kiss.