6. The Path is Made by Walking

She fed it every day—
the monster in the garden—
with Matchbox cars
and figurines, or
whatever useless brick-a-brack
had invaded her home that week.

She had to be careful—
keep them in the circle
she had worn around the Thing,
her anxious steps
contorting the too-tall grass,

shattering its walls and
forcing it into submission before
killing every blade and
letting the red clay take over.

She gently buried—
day after day—
every piece of them
into the too-tall grass,
mislaid reverence of the monster
that she would never see
and would never not see.