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.