Walk a path enough times

it becomes as close to you

as your own spine.

The perfumed mist of valleys at dusk

songbirds nestled in branches

the slow-stepping heron at the water's edge

become companions ---

familiar travelers in the Softly-Lit World

of Flowing Movement Without Grasping.


(c) 2017 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com

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