When I go walking
in the woods,
there is no shame.
Just peace
and reinvention.

The self is both
fickle and wise,
asking us to change
when it knows one
season has expired,
so it can harvest
something new;

We were never
meant to occupy
this same square
foot of soul,
without longing
for transmigration.

The path is slick
with brandied ice,
the trees stripped bare
in empathy-
Every time I leave
this place I find
myself a little more

That last bit of
who I no longer am,
laid to rest
in its eaves.