Poetry

Another Life

Late summer, harvest moon—

I am traveling out of these woods

like a wounded bear.

Dried scars and a loping limp—

my hips grinding in their sockets.

Beneath star-poked skies, I have followed a scent

that has only returned me, once again,

to my starting point.

Wrapped in a dream of blackberry vine and plum,

all I desired was another life.

Padded prints dry in the mud;

while above me, the moon scales hills

that I have abandoned.