Here
I walk
In the path
Of those in my
Past, dusty boots kick
Up memories, the miles
Move on, the wind whispering
What if, the ascension of life,
Marking time only to be
Lost in the swirling mist
Of yesterday,
I still see
Promise,
Hope
Windswept angry eyes,
An icy veneer softly
Moves against the tide
Of knowing what was passing
In time through my yesterday
Darkness,
A thin veil of
Promise hidden in the
Quiet voices of yesterday.
Voices heard over and over
Bringing memories back,
Taunting us with
Silence
The air is cool as the leaves fall gently to the ground. Silhouetted against the icy blue sky, the mind heads south, trying to escape the wrath of the coming winter.
Summer tries to hold on, providing false hope to all.
Still, the scent of icy inevitability urges us on, a reminder that time, in its cyclical beauty and in alignment with each season, can not be counted on to preserve the past.
But the past continues to dominate, caressing each memory, changing them to align with our reality, making the unpredictably of life what sustains life.
The Zen Hiker 