No story remains fixed.

Reserved for Poets by Barbara Helvey Hughes
 
How can we know?
How can we ever truly know?
 
Atoms of moments fly
toward us with the force of
cosmic energy, splintering all
around us.  People enter and
exit our lives ~ each brings a
gift.  Most leave.  I hear their
echoed murmurs ~ distant and
fading.  Impactful only in their
specific moments ~ or years.
 
But my life, my story fills with
twists and turns reserved for
poets ~ in need of reflection.
Introspection.  Lessons.
My head, instinctively, turns West.
There you are.
Here I am.
 
Trees have begun their sultry
dance toward the varied
palette of Autumn’s breath.
In some distant forest,
Redwoods sigh.  You and me?
We look up.  Geese, overhead.
 
How can we know?
Breathe.