I turned over a stone
And found inevitable wet dirt.
There were the mark of worms
And their bodies,
Presenting themselves to
Eyes, as of late,
Having a hard time to see.

I turned to face the river
And the river snaked down
The trail toward the houses
Filled with people, families,
Hopefully love. My finger
Rose on its own. I did not
Deny it's autonomy. The tip
Traced the path of the river
As if my finger were creating it
Out of thin air.

I turned ahead
And saw the path
I had walked
Many times. It reminded me
Of yesterday and the many days
Before: the constants; the abnormalities;
The changes in my life; the lack of
Change in nature.

I dropped my hand
Or my hand dropped me
Or neither.

I turned my body
And began back up the hill.
The sun had dried the dirt.
The birds sang to one another.
I felt lucky
To overhear their joy,
Their sorrow, their hope
In the present and tomorrow.

At the road, the hard surface of the asphalt
Told me I was back in my world.
I was back home, yet, it did not
Feel right.

I was far from welcome
And I didn't know
How to return
Or if

I even wanted to.

Some days
Time stands still
And you with it.

No task, no accomplishment, no satisfaction
Can propel you forward,
Though forward,
Is where you will go unless,

Well, you know.

Fulfillment, oh' another word for a shot of dopamine,
Another quarter conquered, another dollar earned, saved,
And spent.

Satisfaction is a dead-end dead man's game.

Revelry is in discovery.

That is where the spring is.
That is where the sun

Is always rising,

Only ever setting

When you do.