Path of trod packed gray snow
berries on trees around its edges grow.
Fine drawn tails of branches bared
against a sky that covers sun and high clouds;
over this place lost in time.
Shrill yet sweet bird song adding to my sense
that certain things are best not experienced alone.
Mind elsewhere I slip
my boot twisting down and under an exposed root
leaving me half sitting and cursing.
Having done its work
in delivering thoughts of you
it frees my foot.
As I cross Lovers bridge over the rushes
with my newly acquired hobble
I find myself playing with a thought ..
is it better to believe I am strong
than to try to love?
Copyright © Anthony French