Between the Steps

The wind tangles itself in the laces of my boots,
whispering tales of mountains I've yet to see,
of places I haven’t been, but feel I’ve known.
I step forward, one foot meeting earth
where others have passed,
each footprint a story,
each stone a question left unanswered.

The pack on my back is heavy with nothing,
and the trail stretches endlessly,
though it’s never quite the same,
it bends and folds in ways I can’t predict.
The weight pulls me down,
but I move,
because the sky,
the trees,
the scattered moments of solitude
are calling in languages I’m still learning to speak.

A bird darts across the path,
its wings a brushstroke in the air,
and for a brief, impossible second,
I think I understand.
But the world, like this journey,
is too wide,
too full of secrets,
too vast for anyone to really know.

I stop,
lean against the trunk of a tree,
and for a long time,
there is nothing but the sound of my breath.
The path ahead beckons,
but I don’t know if I want to follow
or just stay here forever,
rooted to the earth
in this space between where I’ve been and where I’m going.

There is no map for this kind of wandering,
no compass but the quiet rhythm of my own heart
that beats a little faster as the horizon unfolds.
I look up at the sky,
and it’s both too close and too far away,
an endless stretch of possibility,
and the journey continues.