Everywhere There Are Stairs

Everywhere there are stairs,
new paths to places
just out of sight, imagined,
dreamed of perhaps,
even hinted at,
the magical “door number three”.

Distractions? Perhaps,
Or perhaps a maze
so beautiful
so pointless and lovely
that it does not matter
where they lead,
whether they to up,
or down,
or return you to the same place
again and again,

so intent on the mysterious destination
that we miss the journey,
miss the feeling of our muscles
growing with each step,
miss the play of light
through windows just out of sight,
miss the feel and texture
of our own desires,

and never find our way,
never realizing
we were there all along.

About this poem

Sometimes, I manage to stop looking for meaning, and just enjoy the journey. Not often, but sometimes.

When I do? Those are the best times.

The picture was taken at the Shelbourne Museum in Vermont. Among all the wonderful structures there, they have an old steamboat, lovingly restored. That’s where this shot was taken.

Tom