tendril of life

Are there indicators that say you are this far, this near
the end of journey, when there are no milestones?

Yards of silk swathed around the body add no weight,
wear it like the skin that burns. Remember air cannot cool,

water does every time the bird skims the surface;
a scoop of breeze on its wings, slices of sky thrown back

like pebbles, dropped on the path that leads nowhere.
Snip the thread , let the tendril of life float away.

Poem A Day

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