Touch

After traveling
A good few decades,
Running low on strength,

Here are the crossroads,
Not crossroads at all,
Long grass stirred by wind,

Tracks going one way,
No tracks crossing them,
Not where there should be,

No intersection.
But it’s the right place.
It’s your job to wait,

After all of that
Feckless walkabout,
Wait for whatever

Personal angel,
Adversary, or
Immortal makes tracks.

The horizon shrinks
As the dusk wears on.
Grass stems brush your hand.