There is a path to the southeast of here,
It's well worn and tended in my memory,
Its red clay cut deep into green rises and shallows,
Wasting not a glance before ducking out of my sight,
I would watch… harmless beneath a stand of cottonwood.
Its scent, I recall, was blunt and warm,
Beneath April and other months of bloom,
It would fill my lungs with greetings, and embraces,
Fill my heart with longings and aspirations
Offer redemption to my equitable corruption.
And now, quick along furtive switchbacks,
It would climb tight, through stubborn scrub,
I would take it in through my blurry recollection,
As it breaks clear beside a silent creek fed pool,
I would hold my breath to take in the noise,
Of the silent world on all sides,
And fall in love under a veil of thistledown,
Caught in the commotion of God.
There is a path to the southeast of here,
I have not seen nor trusted its guide for some time,
But, I am sure, it is well worn and tended.
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