Cough that caves my chest, rounds my shoulders, my attention has been inward for days,
foreshortened, the only moment a miserable hacking, I see no future, no past, yet there is no light in this place, this is not the way, nor the path, hopefully not the destination – nothing Zen about this moment, I am attached to outcome, my lungs affixed to themselves, to the ribs that cage them, no way for oxygen to permeate, no round, ringing “OM” vibrates my lips, I’ve forgotten the feel of sand on my toes, the glint of autumn sun through golden leaves, waking to fresh snow, its smooth whiteness evoking that magical isolation, that briefest consideration of being the only one – the last one? – alive, the exquisite knowledge that the life of yesterday need not, cannot, continue, there is another possibility, all I need is to follow the white tracks of the deer that head north, to the chasm named when imagination roamed free, where creatures follow round, ringing winds to the glacier-carved ridge, tilt their heads, ears alert, eyes wide and patient, mind free of every step taken before, unaware of the future. Their stillness lacks the weight of waiting, silent as sculpture they stare across to a time they’ll not enter, where the land is sheered and sundered, to the ones on the other side, eyes unblinking, hooves halted at their uncrossable edge, yesterdays as far as the eye can see, untraversed tomorrows.
you pulled me in. wonderful.