a person can be a meadow you slowly walk through
wild-flower spangled in the early morning light,
another a stony courtyard
horse hoofs sparking as they clop clop clop.
one, two, three stepping stones, across a fast moving brook,
or a crunchy gravel path, with many pebbles in your shoes.

a person can be a gentle hillside, that stretches to the sky,
or a treachorous murky bog, that waits to snatch your shoes.
a craggy bluff you climb, where you dare not look down,
a half built house, with rooms in disarray,
where you wouldn’t want to linger and you head right for the door.

And oh, the person who is a garden, all loamy filled with smells,
or the person who is a mountain, covered with sturdy firs.

Each person is your journey
how ever long they stick around.