Why is it so hard to talk about a journey
To survey the perfectly laid out
cobblestone streets
that corroborate dreams
Or memory
of all the wooded rocky paths
That have led to somewhere

My head is down
Eyes feeling the ground
For any blemish that might make me trip
And fall
and stumble

And grip the ground with my hands
Instead of my feet
An illusion

That makes that moment, 
in conjunction with reality, 
so sad
And hard for me to greet.


the dog