Fire in your wake, you burned, my friend.
So much beauty and brokenness here.
And where would you go from these old,
upturned trees, roots spilling ?
What would you do?
The warm southern hills slope back and forth.
A giant, booming among sycamores,
you could be forgiven here again,
so full of arrogant miles, your body wants to know this river.
There it is, that endless cascade glimmering from stone to stone.
What will you do now?
Why not begin?
Most things mend
or come to mind again and again.
The leaves know
as they hit the ground
how these seasons change.
Priyanka Sinha
Walk With Me 