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Description
There's a bridge
about a mile into
the Libby Hill trail.

Actually, it's just off
the beaten path
made by loud, crushing, atv's.

We passed the knarled branches
and broken paths, seeking, searching,
for words to fix ourselves.

This mess-
yes, i blamed it on you,
yes, you blamed it on me.
Yet, after the anger, here we still are.

We are seeking, seeking solace,
and like a perfect forest, an unbroken trail,
it is too difficult to find.

--

We broke out into cornfields, shaking,
rocking with anger and laughter.
We were mad,
or at least the trees thought so.

--

There's a bridge
about a mile into
a forest we used to walk.

Actually, it's a shamble of sticks,
and planks of wood nailed together,
made by man to cross nature.

We sat there, on the edge,
staring at the water, crying, hugging, wishing-
crying for nature, crying for us.

This mess-
yes, i still blame me.
yes, you still blame you.
Yet, after the tears, here we still are.

We are seeking, seeking solace,
and without our perfect connection,
we are too tired and broken,
to piece things back together.