There is a way. Over there,
behind the clouds, where the sun
lingers and heats rocks and trees
and tips of bird wings that flutter
when silent. Arduous and tremulous,
wrapping the shins, noticeably similar
to a second skin. But who’s keeping
track, really, as it’s almost transparent,
thinking-traps slipping the sole.
Travel at your own risk, some say, as if
difficulty is a means for shrugging and
slumping into withered bones.
What is the risk of going way over
there, behind the clouds where
the sun warms grass blades and cattails
sway in breezes, smelling of rain and fir?
Maybe the risk is not making it,
of getting lost in twists and turns,
perambulating the mountainside as
a leathered ghost under no moon.
If hiding keeps all things hidden, then where
will the sun rest its comfort?
The sky slips its sleet and thunder.
Sweepingly slow and damn tenuous,
but the way presents, over there,
behind the clouds, where the sun
titillates the soul.
Image Source: Pexels
Weathered Well 