and the slow seepage of time,
the path is pliant with pine needles.
Smoke from a fisherman’s campfire
rises like incense through the trees.
Firs spire into clouds,
while mist drifts through boughs
as in the beginning of sleep.
The sound of a step travels no farther
than thick carpets of moss and debris.
Whoever you were when you started
is no longer true. Even the garter snake knows
how to leave its old self behind.