No Clear Path
a fracas of leaves tickles the sun
with googols of young green.
shadows flicker to sliver
among fallen, decayed heroes,
a cemetery coursed by beetles
who seem on fire.
greyblue puddles of lichen, inedible,
dry and flake on misshaped tombstones.
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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