These happy verges in rough grass
that claimed us, flowers on the weeds
where birds’ nests brim with delicate eggs
where all adventures end in fields
of germinating seeds
while I alone forever wander
I would not wish this journey twice
endless on me or any other
through changing paths and tangled trails,
through parley with a dangerous lover,
alone when the abundance failed
they fell, friend after friend
and roads were empty at their end.
I, too, was going nowhere. Once is all
for flowered verges where the grass is rough
and vision magical. But that’s enough.