to my solitary wanderings
for I have no words to explain
where my feet take me or why
I follow a certain trail where
light leads me and sometimes shadows
if I am to tell you true

pocketing the odd snail shell
scraping dirt from the whorls
rubbing thumb gently so as
not to crush its tiny sarcophagus
and now and then to pick up odd rocks
in search of ancient fossils
unearthed by the plow

primal this going this having to
resolving into finding sudden flocks
of robins filling the field splotches
orange and brown flitting
into new leaves my hands
full of broken aloe from
a kitchen transplant that I toss
onto compost at blackbirds’
pecking orange rinds

so leave me wander then
and don’t anticipate my return
for I will roam until sun sinks and night
chill sends me home with the black
cat that talks to the horse the
two of us meandering home
under a Pink April moon.