Recovery

The path out the back door
always leads to the same place–
past the small stand of sycamores,
giant in their journey upward.

Today I shuffle down the dusty trail
eyes glazed with old tears
left over from another night
wondering how the end came so quietly

This solitary trek to familiar grounds
Where I go not to think
but to be free of thought.
Tiny heathers trill, steal sorrow.

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