I’m on foot all
the time now, feetsored
and soul-flown.

But pilgrimage pleases
in spite of my rarely
arriving:

before all the endings, what remains
is wonder, a few good deeds,
fewer answers. This space.

In the classic cartoons,
during chase scenes, the land
falls away under the characters’
scrambling steps.
 
Recognition makes me laugh:
every crumbling place a sacred site,
every where a holy relic.

I witnessed spring’s first robin
supplicate the earth with its beak:

      Come on, love, give us
      a little something for the stomach
      a delicious tendril I pull from the dirt
      but not just dirt
      something a bit more perfected
      for my red round belly.

Then the robin stilled,
sunning,
while a breeze
made the fern leaves click.

Dear Destination, Dear Origin, You are—

I am always arriving,
am always setting out.