Well, I’m not sure these days which way the wind is blowing me.
Which way the crow flies.
How far it is to safety.
I’m not sure these days how to find a way around it all.
How to concern myself with the big picture.
How to iron out the details.
I’m just one foot in front of the other, these days. I’m just one breathe away from knowing the answers. I’m just one wingspan from the life I want, these days.
These days, these days, these grey and blue days.
These days of ‘almost’ and ‘turn around’ and ‘rerouting’. These days of simple pleasures in the sway of the leaves and familiar light and a welcome remembrance.
These days, it’s alright to fly south for the winter.
These days, it’s alright to stay put by the hearth.
These days, these days, these turning-tide days; these shifting-wind days; these days of deep sleeping.
These days, these days, these autumn-new days; These deep-thinking days; these days-mine for the keeping.