By Robert S. King
I stumble back into the woods
under canopies that seem
inside my mind, dark but for
the synapses firing along
the nerves of leaves.
Stones, old scars, glow half-buried
in the ground. They have grown
in the loose dirt over
their ancient holes.
It’s hard to walk backwards here
without overturning these stones;
I cannot hope for smooth do-overs
here where the mind wants
nothing to do with its past.
Yet these stones insist on living
like pieces of my heart
beating again when I near them.
They trip me and dislodge,
opening holes of mirrors and graves,
one a question, another an answer
I do not wish to know. Tell me instead
which stone is more bridge than wound,
which one is a beacon to lead me
through a life well-lit, well-lived.