I can’t help Wondering– if the Wondering was born with me.
Or it came to me, spun down from that gnarled, twisted tree.
Sowed into the earth, under that silvery gaze of a gardener that sowed us all.
Or if uprooted is its end – a path where the moon eclipses – darkness destroying us
From the inside out.
Or lying at my end, set ablaze, it blisters, it burns, it breaks.
Becomes a smoldering light
To reach for
In the depths of night.
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