The Walk

She walks the old road, its surface malleable, as dirt reclaims its path.

Once a smoothness exited, now gone, curves vanishing, the wind, indeterminant.

Her bones feel like prisms, sharp angles, poking out of moving flesh, legs move with assuredness, tenderness.

The road has soft spots, where plants, alive and dead, scar its surface

Not necessarily an easy road to walk by foot. She’s careful. Always.

Her eyes move along its lines, reading its rough syntax, needles, bark, old flowers, wet upon the edges, a dark, moist shadow frames them all.

She places her hands flat upon a remaining level surface

Organic debris, a scree of thoughts stick to her.

She looks at her hands like opening a book

Then looks at the road, she can see the imprint of her hands.

How odd they look, their silhouette, alien.

It’s been a wet August, but it hasn’t really rained, not really.

Maybe October.

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24 Comments on “The Walk

  1. T.S.Eliot once thought the reader was part of the writing process, part of placing meaning into the representation of art. I agree and disagree. Some things have more than one side, more than one interpretation. That’s what good reading is supposed to do.

    Like

  2. I’m not sure why, but reading it this came across almost as a horror poem? Even after just reading it a second time that’s the feel I get it. I like it, but for some reason that’s my take. From what I can see above in the comments, I’m missing something!

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  3. Pingback: The Walk – LIVING THE DREAM

  4. Felt I was right there! First with the unsteady feet on rough surface … and then: “Organic debris, a scree of thoughts stick to her.” (This story will stick with me. Thank you.)

    Liked by 1 person

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