Where I walk is a changing path.
Stones mix with roots,
sand with the dirt of decomposing leaves.
Imagining that I know where I'm going
I place one foot in front of the other,
finding purchase, or slipping until I do.
I seek the familiar in the landscape around me,
yet find no marks define that world.
Could it be that the shapes of leaves
are enough to comfort me with certitude?
The way my foot slips is proof enough
of what I do not know.
And I, on the path, one foot behind the other,
see that which finds my turning gaze.
The rustle of leaves draws my eyes
towards the underbrush,
yet the source I can not see.
The texture of the leaves cushions my footfalls.
My path is one that others have walked,
yet no visible footprints remain.
And perhaps I leave none.
So it is my being upon the path itself
that is my destiny,
my moment here is the whole story.
What I do not know is not ignorance,
what I think I know is not certainty.
Times are, when that is uncomfortable,
like a pebble in my shoe,
and yet I am never lost as I step one step,
and find that which turns my gaze.
Perhaps as I gain some ease with this way,
being between the known and unknown,
I will find my gaze dissolves into just being,
the way the leaf detritus disintegrates into earth.
And aren't I really the same as the leaf,
perhaps I am the rustling in the brush?
The path is one without boundaries
between the questions and the answers.