There are miles of people,
People who are miles and miles and miles or more
Of themselves.
There
Are roamers and mapmakers.
And some of them
On the very same paths! some
Walking side by side in gloam and gale
In
Reeds outlined by the sun on the sea
Thistles soaking with forest midnight,
Midnight that falls around branches like a canopy.
There are people who have walked
So many many miles they've
Turned into something of a maze themselves. Something straight
Out of the naturalist works of a certain Charles Darwin,
Their skin blends with the sand.
Their eyes, with the changing skies that so constantly turn above them, and
Their hair with the dry winds that always seem to run down roads.
There are people who've rounded bends along silken lakes.
Feet that've sunk into Everest snow, lips
Which have drunk of river streams once caged in glacial sculptures.
I feel I am no more
Than
An inch of a person.
At least in comparison.
