still life on the wayside

 

there must have been
a living road among these ruins
a day must have dawned
to laughter and proud ribbons
today the sun grows relentless
on a perfumed hidden corpse

the grass has promise
the brush, trampled and torn
is still alive
the gravel is still marked
with footsteps, fleeing by
without a compass,
or a balancing pole

one day comes,
a torchbearer will slip
set the remains aflame
a brushroot weeps
on gravel each day, hopeful
that tears will work
that feet will learn
that water won't burn