Along the smooth path powdered with dust,
Beneath the bluish shadows of the evergreen.
Where is the thing that I lost?
Toppled crags and boulders grow in clusters, guard the way.
Clamber over, run away,
Each tread sprays yellow moss.
How many ants have marched this day?
Spears of light pierce the woods
The stones of the cliff look like bones.
The wood gives way to sprinklings of daisies
Pinkish grasses rise up before us
Crowned with the light of the setting sun,
Picked out individually in needlepoint.
The wind roars, and we hear from far away,
And the grasses toss their seeds to the twilit trees below.
A swinging topography, Mountains and Clouds, large enough to wear a woods yet small enough to fit in my blinking eye.
I will spin to take it in!
Porcelain skull skewered on the horn of a rock.
We did not see it until we returned.
Its glare followed me home.
