A Song of Renewal
If we had not crossed the river, surprises not lived,
the ordeal that came along anyway might have been less OK.
And, of course, the isolation. Where expectation can thrive even on just dust that drifts past the window.
Envision past this, eyelids closed, again and again and see things hinge back open.
A retreat back to motion, light, dirt, path, lungs, sucking air, the recoil of running in the woods,
or even to simply repeat a year that was so good.
Then return to the river again, to continue as new along an old path, to not be broken.