…the way

by Elizabeth Cunningham

I am barefoot, sometimes the way is soft, a frog

leaps pondward, touching my foot, the birds keep watch

I don’t know where I am going, what I will find

there are berries in fleeting season, wild flowers

in these I believe, my holy task is to see

or to swim so slowly a turtle barely blinks

can I be lost if I am here and here and here

does the one I called god ask any more of me

why do I cry silently all night for mercy?

the one I believed in is called the way; is he

a deer thicket, a swarm of bees, my bravery

as I prepare for undress rehearsal of death?

when the sun is high and hot there is only sweat

I forget tears, mosquitoes and ticks seek my blood

I bequeath my living body to this summer

how far must I walk to leave behind betrayal

my own and others’, when does it become blessing

Elizabeth, let go, your feet will find the way.

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