Rests its comfort

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

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