Thicket

Ready now
for red or gray dawn,
warm or cold day,
rain or sun, dark or
lit night.

I’m holding my face
forward.  What’s behind
stays behind — recalled
but unwatched.  I’ve seen
enough of it.

Fly by me, all you
winged things; crawl by,
all manner of snakes and
creatures; swim by, eels
and carp and bottom feeders.

The path behind me’s
closed, and just ahead
this one’s impenetrable.
I will be scarred, and scratched,
and die up there in the thickets.

That’s the glory of the passage —
that it is forged and cut
by those who know it leads
to an ending and an unknowable home.
Homeward bound: tied tight

to the need to reach it,
I will step out not looking
to either side.  Not seeing,
in fact.  Not hearing or speaking.
All I’ll be doing is walking home.