True is only part of it, in this search for
–recalculating–
path to that person you thought you were going to be.
slow
–if we’d resented less that Holler Store mess of a camp counseler who tried was–trying–to teach us natural navigation, would we have learned that
moss does not care about north or south, but thrives on moist surfaces, that
our first glances in lost woods are just clickbait starter kits that keep us in the weeds, that

–recalculating–

stop

handsy brambles have copped their share of scratches –
shallow
and gouges?
so
many

Imagine at the way the light hits the trees.
Find the ways water fell to its knees.
Became soft lichen altars not
unlike relics.
These are familiar temples whose steps you’ve kissed a million times before.

Look again.

If the water would have to fight
so
hard
to cling to the cragging surfaces
if only shadow could make that shrine so hallowed and hard

look away. it’s familiar too, I
know it is.
And without even looking back, you know just to think of it your skin will forever taste of salt.

I know, too, you’ve found your north.