An unmapped path uphill and overgrown
with tripwire twigs, slippery sticks,
leaf piles, rough roots and other pagan tricks
reveals stone-still and bare, name unknown
an oak-framed face blood-scratched and fire-scored
stump-center a bark-thatched circle, grass-floored.
Instead of odd self-loathing curse
--or even worse--
nodding on wobbly knee
to a beggar deity,
the aim seems to be: search inside
of sunburned heart and molting mind, then decide
if and when to continue on, forge an unfenced trail
by force of will and/or Fullmoon hail,
discover home and higher worth in a ground-based hearth:
pyre old flames, mourn reborn, rise, windwalk rye-gold earth.
Grass Mirror
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