Stronger for the Journey

It is not exactly a road. But more than a path.
There are tire tracks.
Someone has been here before you.
It leads somewhere someone needed to go,
past cornfields and into the woods,
up a hill and back down again,
the dirt under your feet firm.

In the spring, you are sure, there are wildflowers,
but it is late in the year
and the wildflowers are barren stalks.
The leaves have fallen and blown away.
In the distance, you hear cows mooing.
It is late in the day and they need their purging.

It is late in the day, perhaps too late
to begin a new road you do not know
to a place you do not know. But it is not the first time
you began a journey too late
and found yourself in a place you could not have imagined.
Mostly, it has worked out well,
and even when it has not, you emerged
with tales to tell, and a few you cannot,
stronger for the journey.

About this poem

This poem began as a confessional. But the muse…. well you know, a fickle wench, the muse. I will write the confessional another day.

Tom