Walking backwards is always a guess.

A wandering cowboy slips through the snow as the thaw of spring rears its frosted head.

The soft crackle of arched steps sounds through the room. Pacing like a sun-bound polar bear.

An illusion is brewing

It has been for a dogs age.

This medley of confusion and open-ended paths that so neatly disguise themselves as solitary walkways. Instead of the outward spinning circle from which we’ve all originated at the center.

Hesitating to close with grief as no arms find themselves around me.

Hate to accept the cowardice of refusing to face the dark wings of heartbreak in a lush environs. The demi-glacé of reality will not find me there.