Miles from Innisfree
I, too, will rise, but I am miles from Innisfree. I am beside these standing stones that mark a bog’s edge. Water pierces the sea of its entrapping grass like a drowning swimmer. No soft footprints along what passes for a shore, save my own.
Where is my path forward? The bog yields no trail or solid ground. And beyond it, a line of trees before dark foothills–themselves towered over by whitecaps.
Where will I make my cabin? Where, my bean rows and honey hive? Where will I hear lake waters lapping along a serene shore? Not in a heart too disturbed by the terrible beauty before me.
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