Sometimes you’re struggling
through dense forest where
undergrowth has eaten the path
and block off all sense of east, west,
north, south, and night is coming fast. 

Sometimes you’re wandering green
hospitals corridors just to stay awake,
ears assaulted by random bells and chimes
and all the arrows and signs lead you
back to the same dead end. 

Sometimes you’re cooking in your
mother’s kitchen and you hand
her the flour before she asks. She seasons
your stew with a pinch of something 
and a story about your grandmother. 

Sometimes you’re sitting on the dock,
early morning, feet sunk in cool water,
steam rising from lake and coffee cup.
One loon calls to another, and you
have nothing to do, nowhere to go.