by Dorothy Walters

I think it is enough,
at times,
to go without knowing
where the end is,
what the beginning–
so long ago.

Perhaps you have friends
who can whisper
such things
in your ear,
hear little bits of
in the laughter of children.

But mostly we just proceed ahead,
not remembering
how it all started,
where it is leading,
not sure
if we are the waiting animal
or the animal’s passing
in the grass.

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