A Worn Footpath Among the Leaves

Writing words into the wind
giving your own face
a different name

When are words written
into trees, like
spliced in

Like an owl stealing
a mouse from a field

Tell all the teachers
I’ve done my duties

We’re boarding now,
in an orderly fashion

What clues does the mind
leave itself
to remember the best path

Press gently on the screen door
look out upon all that is

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