Walking The Paper Plank
In the wildest place,
my mouth stopped with stars,
I came to the end of words;
the parched mint, bitter
paper plank
where I lost my balance,
on one foot teetering
along that roadway where gold-
flashing fireflies stand effortlessly
on air
to send their fragile signal
out,
every night a nocturne
of one less
til I and the last firefly
danced alone
in the wildest place
sending our last ignition
out
to find our kind
or else fall quiet
and one
with the wild that
will neither be spelled
nor known.
June 2023
a late poem on the Wild Thing Challenge, posted for Open Link
