Striding thoughtfully for
destination to reach
assembling clever steps
always being close
but not approaching.

That is your horizon
with no end
that is your happiness
your path you transcend.
The closeness of reaching
and touching the bliss
proximity of arrival.

I lift my pen from the page
and smell the coming rain
I hear the rising wind
and sense gathering pain

and as the scouting drizzle coats my face
I smile, because I have my compass
I have a North Star and the maps I made
when I came this way before

I know I can navigate these hills
and I can form a new stanza
to take me through to the meadows
that wait for me there

The map is not the territory, but oh, how we need the map and a trusted map maker.  And who better, but the maker of all.

to read my past journal entries is
to walk on an intimately familiar path,
one in which I know the major landmarks,
the steep mountains, and the deep valleys.

even though I can walk on this path
with my eyes closed and get through,
I don't. I slow down on the way,
noticing flowers I didn't see before.

I pluck a leaf off every flower stem,
and keep it safely between my palms.
the leaves remind me of the flowers
that grew despite the harsh conditions.

whenever I wish for a new beginning,
I blow on a leaf and let it guide me.
I smile, exhale, and walk forward.
behind me, new flowers are blooming.

Caught within
the cot I built
to slaughter
all the goals that fit

A miasma, thick
with success and stress
in growth, the wisest
call duress

on my throne
sits the black honed axe
seething at my fauna,
as I contemplate their imminent trauma

I'd rather watch them grow
as steel plummets to their throats
augmenting my flock of ghosts
enclosing the lonesome cot and throne

fires raged as the winds fueled their fervor
taking on anything in their path with incredible force
moving across the ground and leaping up to reach higher fuel
doing only what fires do...
moving with the wind and leaving a path of blackened surface
is this our new reality...?

Brian Hill - 2020 # 247