The traced path, when looked in retrospect, seems the correct one.
The indistinct form, when looked through bifurcations, seems solid.
Troubled waters, when observed long enough, seem placid.
Is the lichen growing in the shade, the true prodigy of the forest?
I walk tortuous paths, through which I collect pieces of what I believe is me.
Running over a dry lawn with the first dog, a father’s rump, a mother’s lap.
In some of these paths I lose myself,
in others I find myself.
For a moment I touch the void, but stand steady, bare feet on damp soil.
In others, the void touches me, and I float between what once was,
what is at this moment,
and what it will be.