They will no more notice
the loss of the White Pine Way
than they will the spidery web
of atlas lines
that told you how to get
from here to there.
That sacred knowledge —
our finger touch of distance and time,
the intuitive knowing of how —
as foreign as the waypoint Oak
that stood mid-path,
its forked trunk noting
this way to loop back home or
that way, the path less traveled
that way, where the white pines whispered welcome,
and the weathered veins of the world let go
just long enough for you to hear your breath
and muted footsteps on the soft ground,
where you could disappear
into shade and shadow
and silence…
before the storm
the shearing off of what
we thought we knew for sure,
the deception of always
and certain revealed now
against the stark blue sky.
Poem & Photo ©2024 Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
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