The Forgotten Path
She steps onto a road made of books—pages worn soft
as moth wings, spines cracked open like promises
the forest made to itself in some greener century.
Her dress catches light the way memory catches grief:
golden, inevitable, beautiful in its ache.
The wildflowers bow as she passes, daisies white as forgetting,
rust-orange blooms the color of all the autumns
she's tried to outrun. The trees lean in like grandmothers
whispering go on, child, this is the way back to yourself.
And she does—barefoot on forgotten words, walking
into the mist where the path dissolves, where the light
says here, here is where you've been heading all along.
-Artwork created in Photoshop and additional image-painting programs
-Poetry written by me
-both copyright to ©Stacy Stephens