The pebbled path haunts me gently
like the drifting thought behind
my mind. Coming to the surface
on manuscript days and loose-leaf
nights. The way it winds to the door
and ends with grace. The way I ran
on summer mornings when the ground
was still cool enough for bare feet.
I am undone a little.
I can see it from my office window,
the grave-markers of living
in a childhood home condemn
me softly. Each pebble whispering
some new memory as my son
runs barefoot under my window,
I am ink-stained and guilty
of never writing enough of me,
of the gentle opening in me,
of the deeply familiar novelty
that is a pebbled path
Emma McCoy is a poet, writer, and student trying her best. Her work can be found in places like Seaborne Magazine, Paddler Press, The Crux, and Catfish Creek. She is currently working on her first chapbook.
