The arch of lashes, closed eyes,
as you lift a foot into the air -
the air?
What is it, really?
The path that you have ambled on, every day after school
through slippery ice and blooming flowers, through mountains of fiery leaves,
is not so familiar anymore.
Is your foot venturing on the path, or is it veering
off course,
pushing through to create another road, beckoning with adventure?
The mist is so oppressing, the fog never lifting,
the ground off the path so threatening,
but you walk on, stiff and braced,
as misted claws
tear at your
retreating figure.