Know-ledge

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KNOW-LEDGE


Metric crunch of boot-fall 

as we leave the trail, 


brush past branches bent

to snag our shirt-


tails like an extra syllable. 

Hands out to feel the pulse


of lightning bugs suspended

on cicada-song which is the sound


of the invisible 

vowel, there is the stumble


of feet, the inarticulate 

mumble, and then for a moment


the sizzle-silence. The edge

is the end of our words. 


If for a minute, let us 

peer over into the darkness


before the dizziness, the recall

that ours is the lantern and the trail


home.

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