Never Truly

She’s not an oracle,
simply my therapist. 
I bring my basket
brimming to her now—
can you believe it—
now only once
every two or three moons,
an offering of fears
laid at her feet.
She peels back the dark 
cloth, takes in the writhing serpents, 
notes their diminishment
in size and power. 
Only garden snakes
she smiles, her eyes
sparked and celestial.
All is well, she decrees, 
and my right mind nods, 
while my left hesitates, 
remembers how 
small creatures grow 
and hunger— flames 
seeking oxygen. 
We are never truly
out of the woods. 
Look, see the fossils
of our footprints.

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