A to B

One step at a time

My feet pad toward the flagpole near the horizon

Nothing stirs in the flat land surrounding me

Nothing crunches under me shoes on this dirt road

The path, the flagpole, and the oxygen keeping me alive

Are all that matter.

A purpose.

An action.

String the two together with a chain of words, my teacher once said,

And a sentence will form.

Clarity and precision will illustrate all your thoughts.

There is no need to think of anything more.

But why can’t flowers also bloom from the dirt I so religiously tread on?

Why can’t the craggly dirt respond to the gnashing of my shoes?

Why can’t the birds also breathe the air around me?

The truth is,

When the flowers didn’t bloom,

When the dirt didn’t crunch

And when the birds didn’t chirp,

I did not walk either.

A ghost would drift in my place.

I had already left the world

And was exploring the winding, dynamic paths of the hills beyond.

Where salmon can spring out of rivers

And ice can hail from the skies.

Where I could always find my place,

My story,

And my voice

Mingled with the beauty of the universe.