Time and time again I thought it strange.
That I would walk these depths and journey home after
finding only that I had not changed, that the paths I wandered,
ruts sunk deeper with each season, carried me in such familiar fashion.
How could it be that feet so traveled and skin thickened
felt childish though they no longer marveled at the world?
Those thoughtless rows I cut through, bold like border lines
began to sketch a portrait as if I’d meant it all along.
But there’d been no course, no destination, had there?
Just piecemeal narrative muttered with a glance over my shoulder, 
crumbs and caricature for comforting reflection.