We Can Not See The End, Until We Are In It
1.
They instruct,
“The mountain is not far.”
2.
On a narrow highway with one hundred vehicles
I am a lone pedestrian.
3.
A thing has crept into my boot
with its prickly nature, a sea urchin
desperate for warmth.
4.
I slouch and drag my way
through a flatland with hollow soil.
5.
Praying, I bend forward as the breeze
presses me sharply to turn back.
6.
They do not understand.
7.
The mountain is moving; if I do not make it,
it shall sink headlong into the horizon.
8.
A windmill tilting at me,
eating at my still forming self.
9.
I’ll carry all I can with me.
This poem was first published in Lunaris Review in April 2017. This is its first time appearing anywhere else.
Renwick Berchild 