Gravel shifts, each step precariously balanced, slick with
wet of early rain, blearing the world, shrouded with fog, the pale green of
spring buds popping up, thirsty for more than winter could provide, as am I,
this stumbling, bumbling stroll through time we must take each season, as if brand
new, yet not, configured again, as we forget previous steps, the slick step,
the wandering step, repeated again and again like a Metrodome pacing out the
music of our lives, repeated even when we do not recall its previous beat, the
chill wind carrying the early wet until we are drenched, this path, not the
least traveled, but the same path we travel each time, trying to put out of our
minds that we have been here before, desperate to keep it from being the same,
when it always is.
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