Cicatrix

In the woods, you warn of the danger,
This leaf, that shadow, this path
lacks the clear edge, the ten precise lobes,
the sharp midrib of measure.

You protest you are not schooled
in woodcraft, and as you speak, the darkness
pours from your mouth to collect and pool
in the empty bowl of your hands.

Stop and make a fire. Better to remain
in one place than to cast about for the perfect
sign. Rest your mind in the fire,
and imagine a way out. Discard it forever.

Mourn what you have lost of yourself,
and when you are ready, begin singing.
This is how we will be found.
Not the bent twig, not the drop of blood.

Watch the black bear, how he shuns
paid advice, stores fire in his fat, and survives.
Look, we are more than halfway there,
and all this time you have been leading.

copyright 2005 Elizabeth Trotter
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