As a road,
meandering through the journey of a river.
This is how a spring grows
to become an ocean.
A man may learn in its harrow straits.
Taking tentative steps till the end is trailed.
Coiled hair would straighten, and it must.
Combed of webs
Each strand whose root is strained
sinks with the ground.
What becomes of the soil you walk upon;
When time is not as flat nor as straight
but it unfolds regardless?
When wounds don’t heal as they said they do with time.
When I must run through bodies of water to think of hope.
When I must look to the sea to make sense of the sky above me.
This ground whose dust clings to the soles of my feet.
When the wind carries long memories of my past.