The Making of Paths
You walk and at a certain point, you come to the end.
It is not the end you expected when you began.
You imagined a journey that would go on
past your ability to walk,
that you would simply walk until your legs turned to jello
and you made your way back, a victim
of your own limits.
You did not expect to come to a place,
complete with a gate, and no path on the other side.
Only overgrown brush, lush with August green.
But, you reason, there was a path here once.
Why else a gate? And was the gate there
to keep things in or keep things out?
How long, you wonder, did it take
for the path to completely disappear?
You are tired, but just a little.
It has been a good journey, and your legs are still strong.
You are not ready to go back
and so you climb the grey wooden gate
and clamber into the brush
making your own path.
About this poem
I was writing in my journal earlier this morning, focusing on where I am in my own journey, and some plunges into life’s brush I have taken these past few years. Somehow, I have always done better in life plunging into the brush. Not easier. But better.
From that, and a picture I took while I was out convertabling yesterday, came this poem.