She’s lost her head, they said, shaking their own in order to be. There’s rules, they whispered, a little too loudly. Your dreams are for slumber. Don’t walk in the wilds.
So she wandered a little, too far down their path, and found that she lost whatever was needed. It suited the moment, for paths can be winding, deceptively sinuous, but always on track. But little by little, her footprints diminished. One day she looked and the ground lay bare.
The trees stood naked and just kept on growing. The grass died in Autumn. The moon rose and fell. The rain bled on hard times. The days met the night sky. The sun met uncertainty and wind fallowed wild. The path kept on winding, receptively open. The journey lay forward. She didn’t look back.