In the storm's small aftermath
In the wind-set twigs and branches
Fortune-tossed and telling
As the shaman's ancient bones,
I stood out of the moment
In future's skewed abstract.
What sun-lit crucible depending
From a morning sky?
Midway lost in willed illusion,
Mazed in self-deceit;
Then embered in rheum-eyed clear,
Letting footfall to the unmarked path.