March

And she walked.  She walked away, and kept walking.

Back to the riverbed and the forest and the trees that healed her.  Held her.

Back to facing the sunshine and the air outside, holding her lens — her sword and shield.

And she listened.  She listened to the sounds of possibility.  They were everywhere.

She slowly walked herself back, back to herself.  Back to where she was before.  Back to where she started.  She walked, and kept walking.

She had tried so many things.  So many different faces.  So many different places, she’d been.

Still, she found herself walking back to where she had always gone, had always been.  Circles, she had made in the days since she’d left.

And she wandered.  And she wondered: about all the things she’d lost, about all the things she’d gained.

She thought about grief, about sorrow, about pain.

But she also thought of the many joys, the many wonders, her world had made — even after all this time, when nothing seemed the same.

She kept walking.  Back to reality, back to serenity, back to the peace she had held in her heart, before it had all started to fall apart.

With each step, she got closer.  Closer to what?  The breath and the beat, that of her own march.