How the ground below trembles -
insular, cyclic, static -
so gentle in its gyrations
generating only
familiar sorts of consequences.
The scars and faults over-familiar; understood,
but safe -
dare I trade to trod far-afield
to walk upon unknown ground,
towards alien fauna and foreign flora
where I know not what it would mean to stumble?
But oh, that these boots had never journeyed
not towards horizons shimmering
nor towards where great Sol slumbers,
that they'd never stumbled to stopping here
where to see singly is to know
and to stay is to die - slowly.
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