The Narrow Black
The road is a dark ribbon with a smattering of snow
on each side, the remnants of the last storm,
not quite melted, still lovely but
no longer dangerous, like the memory of love,
cold and clear and safely to the side.
Your tires whoosh through the slush,
no clear direction, happy for the journey,
the traveling through an almost familiar landscape,
not unlike places you have lived before,
and yet, new. Down one new road, and then another.
At this point I am not sure it matters where I go
in life. It matters more how and who
I am willing to touch in a life where I am less afraid
of lepers and other outcasts. Less afraid of Pharasees
and those who believe their angry noise matters
more than simple touch, simple compassion.
It matters that I will travel roads a bit slippery
and trust the training of a lifetime,
even the times spent in ditches, maybe especially them,
to keep me on the narrow black ribbon
About this poem
Recently I have been writing a slew of poems that are not what I started out to write. This is another one. About life, growth, aging, journeys, and whatever is next. Poetry is never about one thing.
The picture is of a local road not far from my house in West Pawlet, VT.