My dog gallivants 
where her nose leads, 
follows a serpentine path 
that knots, twines like 
the best efforts of Gordius, 
while I, though no Alexander, 
cut straight through the morning. 

Who’s to say my gadabout 
isn’t right, that I am too eager 
by far to get to the finish line, 
to complete each morning, each 
week, in a dead gallop toward 
the same glib end? 

She strolls the grass 
in her intricate cursive; 
I stride, my steps hard-angled, 
bold, sans serif. 

She—geomancer, gourmand 
of the ground’s intricate secrets—
must pity me, blind as I am 
to the geode gleam 
she gleans from each single 
step of every day’s dance. 

Bio: Roy Beckemeyer