Next

Sometimes the next  

necessary step to take

is to stop,

not to step at all,

but to lie down

on cool grasses

near the edge of a lake,

eyes closed, listening to clouds,

tasting wind, cradled by earth,

or to stand still at an arched doorway

next to a tall stranger,

a woman with short brown hair,

where together you face

an unseen inside of perhaps

an ancient church for as long

as it takes,

until either Silence whispers

its subtle language of trembling delight 

or every footprint is swept away,

erased finally in rambling floodwaters

of surprise as a river of fire arises,

wildly flows rousing every cell,

muscle, and shy desire

of your bodies’ once quiescent futures

towards whatever happens
to become
next.