Aug 312011

Something about where the pebbled path in day
Splits, or in evening even trines,
Makes me wonder about the purpose of the way.

How many must have used their footsteps just to come,
And in coming here pass on in time,
As if all wheres we go are comparable to when.

And yet, time's a path more linearly ordered,
One whose steps will not divide,
No matter at what shady banks or grasses we loiter--

We may not, cannot, no matter how tried,
Reverse the going flow, or, breaking it, abide.

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