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Bread Loaf
by Donovan White

A man can starve to death on forest paths unless he keeps his way.
The trails in woodland deserts wend to end, meander where they may.
The sun and golden light aslant provide a faux direction,
To guide the eye across the hill away from introspection.

The way winds paired around the hill where once a highwayed wagon trace,
A market road for hillside farms, a washed-out, cobbled gulley now.
Ahead no comb of fir to rise, here halfway to the sun,
To line the crest and mark the furthest limit of the uphill run.

But fire more than lack of air, with water twinned irruptive ice —
Full elemental nature here has pared hills down to native gneiss.
The fire first, then rain, then wind, leaves all to waste, lays bare the
ground.
Gray lichens, maybe rags of moss, are all that sketch out riven bounds.
It's fire makes all headings right - lays bare the truths and lights the
light.
To sear the hilltop landscape clean and spawn an ill-cast alpine height.

An unplanned tramp, without a purpose, cuts the future off the past,
Can turn each step into the now and find serenity at last.
And inasmuch as all trails wend to end, meander where they may,
So just because I'm wandering, that doesn't mean I'm lost today.