Almost a Path

It is a different path than the one you started,
less marked and somehow not on your map.
A bit harder perhaps. More climbing.
More need for rest. Exposing every weak muscle

working them, making them stronger.
you have surprised yourself
at where you found beauty
and the love of God, in places,

evidently, few people bother going.
So in a real sense, the flowers along the path,
white and yellow and vibrant purple
are just for you.

You pass a graveyard. Overgrown
with tilted stones. Every one of them
have the same last name and you find yourself
thinking of the lives lived, and how each of them

once lived here, near the abandoned path.
You smile, knowing they must have,
certainly must have shared the ancestors
of these same wildflowers you are enjoying.

You are not good at thinking about death
despite your age. Aware of it certainly, not afraid.
Death will take care of itself. Life takes work
There are promises to keep, and new paths

and you are not done walking.
Sooner or later, you will find your destination,
and you are certain about one thing and one thing only.
You will be surprised.

About this poem.

This morning at the last diner standing, I was asked (because of my just passed 70th birthday) if I thought much about death. Despite 11 years as a part time pastor and 7 years as a hospice chaplain, the truth is that I do not dwell on it.

I thought about my life, and all the surprises in it. About coming here to Vermont after a rough divorce. About finding my art. Stumbling into ministry. The work I do. The people I have come to know. Particularly the finding of the love of my life. None of it expected. What has age done to me beyond white hairs and wrinkles? It has left me with a constant wondering of what’s next. Some days I am more like a child than an old man. From those thoughts, this poem.

Or it is a poem about walking in the woods. Poetry, after all, is never about one thing.

The photograph was taken up in the quarry across the street from me. Few people walk the quarry anymore, and when I stumble on wildflowers like this, I like to pretend they are God’s little gift to me.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom