just outside the cabin, there’s
a pathway through the wood;
the air is light and full of sound,
and all seems right, and good,
and like the world’s supposed to be
upon a summer’s morn
away from all the conflict, and the scorn.
just outside the woods, i see
the trickle of a stream;
it wanders rather aimlessly,
it seems to have to no scheme
as to exactly where it fits
amid the rocks and trees —
familiar: it occasions some unease
for just outside is where i am
and where it is as well;
the times that i’ve spent “just outside” –
too numerous to tell —
but still, beneath sun’s fresh glare
there is no place to hide:
i’m just outside
i’m always
just
outside
