tattered

when i can’t bear to finish a book

because it’s world will close

disappear

the discovery of fertile ground will be over

it will be a path that i can always return to

but it will never be new again

i pause half way thru a chapter

save the next moment with a little scrap of paper

mark my spot

like a stone pile on a trail

or if i’ve come

prepared

i could draw an arrow on a tree

i’ll come back to it again

piling up half read works

half hiked trails

on the extra pillow beside me

empty

without a partner

a lone traveler

until i turn the pages

once

again

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