Where roads were gravel

and carved into steep

 

banks. Every turn relied

upon the earth nearly cut

 

away, fields and hollows

revealed, interminable

 

crests of land rising

from cold water runs.

 

There was quiet and

beauty enough to make

 

me from the inside out.

There were hazards.

 

Expected dangers

of weather. And whether

 

or not I had what

I wanted, I learned.

 

Roads slip sometimes,

the beloved may fall away.

 

Better things can wait.

I'm not a body traversing

 

pastures. I'm not a road,

its wounded places. But

 

what is rough mostly feels

right to me. The days are

 

in no particular order--I am

simply what came next.