After the Storm

After the Storm.

Two paths forked

on the mountainside.

Kilgrin, shivering and wet,

sheltered under an overhang.

The storm was abating.

Blue-black clouds 

rushed in rumble and flash 

further down the valley.

Columns of light

like celestial spokes

descended and dissolved

above the far mountainside.

Behind him the sinuous past 

spooled through swamp, 

rock-pool, canyon,

river-wandering valley,

boulder-strewn roads,

litter of bright flowers,

sun-dappled ridges,

and this last fierce storm.

I can choose the path

but not the mixture 

of burden or beauty hidden

behind each bend or rise.

Is my only real choice 

in response, in how I walk,

in what weights I carry,

in what weights I discard?

Do the weights I carry,

those known and unknown,

direct and predetermine

both path and how I walk?

He sat for a long while.

The sky had cleared.

Last light pooled in puddles 

and gleamed on wet rock.

The dark mountain loomed.

He stood and walked.

The Evening Star glowed

in the growing gloom.

First published in Verse-Virtual