Writing is to find a surprise,
This journey is unknown,
What began as a memory,
Slips into another land,
It takes its own trajectory,
Finding pockets of gold,
Deep pools under the heart,
It cannot simply be traced,
Becomes a
non- reductive metaphor,
So to speak.
Its ending may fall short
Of its beginning,
What conversation left unsaid,
Revealing only emptiness.
Another stepping stone,
In the foothills.

Love Mary **