For so long you believed you were lost,
little did you know
the chimneyed possibilities
beneath your battered torments.
Sometimes it takes the stillness
of bare feet in the fogbound grass,
the sensation of the small of your back
pressed against the trunk of a coastal pine,
or the purpling rhododendron
to fully acknowledge
what is true:
you were only dismantling
the fraudulent symmetry
of the ordinary and expected
to hear the jangled arias
of your own composure.