people have forged a pathway through the undergrowth, trampled the soggy earth, folded in leaves and twigs and absences, wet foliage overhead, burdened by clouds the color of sadness. my daily walk. I sidestep, eschew, go around greedy damp vegetating hands incessantly grabbing the narrowing light. I slither like a shadow among thorns. a stretch of mud, deserted, pure, devoid of sounds – no quarrels, people can only walk in single-file but hardly ever venture – the path is empty. occasionally, I will come across a doe-eyed girl, in a blue hooded blazer, (she looks up startled, terrified) a solitary teenage guy (uncertain of what he's becoming), the quiet thumping of a dog announcing its owner. we all come here to be alone to be ourselves, accepted, undivided, whole. the thicket is our hiding place, our healing place, our place of worship. in summer, we share it with bugs and insects, and the dreams that arachnoids weave to filter the dead from the living and, in due course, the dew, but now we share it only with our breaths. at the other end, a miniature red maple stands ablaze. inescapable. its tiny leaves like bleeding palms bleeding to touch another bleeding for a touch.
Writer Between Worlds 