No Clear Path
a fracas of leaves tickles the sun
with googols of young green.
shadows flicker and sliver
through laced cemeteries of
fallen decayed heroes,
coursed by beetles which seem on fire.
greyblue puddles of lichen, inedible,
dry and flake on shabby stones.
a single arrow of light
hits a pine tree right in the chest,
impaling an amber bull’s-eye,
sticky heart turned to gold.
who will earn its love?
an ant, a moth, a squirrel,
some chickadee?
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