Lost while the green ones grow,

inches shrinking daily between ground and raining sky.

I’ve set down a reasonable life

for something deemed

unacceptable.

The unguessable carving

of my river’s path.

The pressures out there

and what a life is to look like–

meaningless.

Singular urges toward Yes

are the winds at my back, yet

this is dead calm,

throwing me.

What next?

What now?

Planning might as well be building

with cracker crumbs.

So I stay, and sit, and waste the days

visited by wonderings

but, mostly, placing one foot ahead

of the other,

going no place.

Survival.

Is this it?

The doubting of an eddy.

Come next year, come next forty,

it will be revealed.