You call me Careo, from far down the path that was
less-travelled once: following it now
I tread in the mud made by others since, pushing
aside blackberry vines all blossom, no fruit.
This is the time of year there are no cicadas, no
flies, no crickets at night, no fruit flies on
the fruit, no fruit on the ground and
the ground is sodden. Mornings
are sudden, storms come on slow.
Following you means going anywhere
to its end – if I cut across the field,
I’m heading to the horizon, if entering this cave
I’m entering the grave, if putting on
these hunting boots, I’ll proceed in measured steps,
your absence my metronome.