“Reluctant, I’m shy

the confidence of squirrels,

who clatter across laced branches,

reckless when the unmapped way

lays itself out or

doesn’t, the dead end,

the spring-and-give

more the living

than the solid path.

 

“I fear this next leap—

that a soft spot in leaves

or a sure next move

won’t rise up like a dream

or like reason—

that I might have to answer

to myself

or to some perfect image

shouldering its vague weight

onto a balance, trying

to tip the scales

favoring significance.

 

“Right now,

I’m hesitating

to inch

along this fine line

I’m barely feeling

between seeing meaning

and needing

merely being.

 

“Even in this

I am afraid.”