Do we always land
where we began:
baby steps, the toes
so fat they seem
platonically related to the body,
toddling through
water glass-beaded grass
leaving tender prints.
Teenagers thrusting
through tall grass:
leaping then lying down–
rushed love-making
before they are discovered,
getting chiggers where
chiggers should never be.
Autumn has turned to winter,
I look upon straw rotting in the field
with the Reaper’s breath a whisper away.
Is this where I am going,
or merely where I’ve been?
Poetry by Melgmills 