A quaver like an old man’s stammer,
I descend like motes of dust for decades
into my final voice; until now, as
I stumble down the hall into the night.
Like my father the year before he died,
I grope my way through the thickening dark.
I do not believe in an inscribed fate;
yet, I am still here now, nowhere else.
A result of fractal mathematics—
one tangential thought into another?
Misdirection became the direction
reaching out like feathers testing the wind
lifting the hawk along a dry thermal
which rises above a desolated plain.
(February 26, 2024)
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