and often I was sure, or else I guessed

as best I could and pressed ahead,

not striving for the straightest, fastest way:

I sought the best, most beautiful,

and thus I followed twisting forage trails

of moose and deer, or tried to track

the mostly vanished paths of other men,

detours around hollows... I blazed

by cutting deep, hacking limbs, painting bright,

and even as I made my marks

across a desert island wilderness,

I saw my paths as metaphor

for all my art and thought, and now,

the forest and the bog reclaim my toil.

I keep no trails; I blunder on

through thickets green beyond conclusion.

—Harry Smith