“Inroad Spring“
the track runs through low scrub,
a thin line worn by weather
and countless soles before.
springs self reveal in small ways-
a warmer breath of wind,
a looseness in the soil.
I keep on without rush.
those who steadied me
walk with a quiet weight,
not pushing, not pulling,
just keeping their pace
as the ground shifts under us.
behind me, the old house sits
with its doors half-closed.
old worry turned sharp,
loss talk grown tight.
I leave it as it stands,
rooted in its own season.
out here, the brush moves easy.
a few birds lift and settle,
unbothered by my passing.
the road gives only what it can-
dust, a bit of warmth, spring
bubbling from dirt and stone.
.
