Over the gnarled roots
Where the path forces her to dance
There is a stump covered in black wire moss
Reminder of the closed-eye feel of an aging man’s stubbled face
The one who chases hibiscus hips to recover lost time, each breath a defiant haul
On the line, between here and fear; and she wonders if squirrels ever lose their balance
Taking a dizzying spill from the canopy, as under the foliaged Brise soleil, her knees strike the ground
Sometimes things just don’t make sense. Find your own meaning.