A Year of Poems – Day 59

In books we hear thoughts.
A voice tells us what no one could know –
secrets cemented over like an abandoned salt mine,
hopes hidden away from the corrosive air –
we read it all as we follow along their path.
We learn a small shadow of their destination
long before their final punctuation places them to rest.
For good or ill this voice does not haunt our lives.
We step forward into shadow
without any hint of the destination,
hoping that careening feet meet pavement.
But sometimes in a quiet moment,
after a hug, or walking past a steadfast tree,
in the silence, though no voice spoke,
we walk with reverent step and watchful eye.
For beyond all reason, yet in all certainty,
we think these words of narration,
“I will not walk this way again.”

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