Stumbling with barren foot and dogs, not in tow.
It becomes apparent the soil, the sod, wishes for us…not to go.
Over knolls that bare the scar of winter’s discontent.
I am old.
The dogs are old.
Yet, we are hellbent.
No matter, the antiquated bridge.
No matter, the splinters of wood half skewed.
We a search for that which heaven has sent.