by Brent Porter
I walk
towards solitude,
into solitude,
become solitude.
Alone with me, at last
I wonder at how I am.
What I am
why I am.
But I remain silent.
I won’t answer.
Rustling black leaves of the trees
chime with a clear ring
as they wave and embrace the wind.
Grey blankets on black night hide
the silhouettes of the gods
whose eyes wink at me knowingly
as they look down smiling
nodding
goading me forward.
I continue on the trail
as the soft earth beneath me
kneads my feet,
my legs.
And in my mind
I unknot again, realizing that the moment
is the moment
is the moment.
Too soon, murmurs crowd again
around,
like little hammers drumming away.
Shattering solitude,
shattering tranquility.
Those pristine moments,
the rarest of all.