Grip of the Moment

we ghost most gently through the underbrush
slip behind boulders and always upwind
they often remark we're invisible
but we're only quiet and trim
stalking and scouting is our fortress
whenever the forecast is grim



Coalescing finally drifting down
our blood begins to boil
what strange and unexpected reward
for our endless, aimless toil
back to that start, square one it seems
again we're down to this
familiar: We'll be in the blood
as we retreat to mists



In other worlds at other places
maybe things will get inflected
hewing wood or looping braces
paralyzed in a dreaming maze
as starter pistol begins the races
trapped we are the minotaur
all manners devoid of kindness, graceless
we're petrified and diamond hard



It remains again this reconnoitering
entombed, ensconced within this womb
no hasty weaver's shuffle-clack clattering
bold argent chases our emerald cocoon
was a simple dugout blind hide for recovering
but now it's more prison than hospice room