The wind
                                                       at my door
                                                                                                              RATTLES me

shakes me
                                                       free of my
                                                                                                               pointed finger

Blameless, I
                                                       turn inwards,
                                                                                                               concave,

I search
                                                       for the love
                                                                                                                in me

& return
                                                       with a bunch
                                                                                                                of old bones,

skeletons of
                                                        myself that
                                                                                                                 I have wasted

away on
                                                         pleasing other
                                                                                                                   people's needs

so that
                                                         they could use me
                                                                                                                   as a net

when they
                                                         fall, & tell me
                                                                                                                   that I pushed

them, that
                                                         it's all my
                                                                                                                   fault.

I wake up, it's noon,
I bounce around my mind to find
that it'd be better if you were here,
but I'm not alone anyway.
Endless options sing me songs
as I dance around an empty house,
seemingly infinite.
I hear Emily Dickinson's call of irony
"Dwell in Possibility"
from a girl who never left her home
Perhaps, I, now, should do it too--
dwell, but never pick a road,
as Robert Frost did.
Maybe I will stay idle
& watch my choices melt away
as I let time run free,
crawl into bed & watch the
sun slide across the blue
& call today "No Paths Were Traveled"