The Road

by

Jennifer Angelina Petro

Someone else made this road.

I am not a trailblazer.

This road was made and walked

By many others before me.

The end could be a dead end,

It could be a cliff, a lake, a swamp,

It could be a forest, it might open

Into an emerald city or a wheat field.

The only certainty is death

Waiting at the doorstep

Of the end—everybody knows that.

Sometimes I close my eyes as I walk

Both by choice and because I am afraid to see

Where I am going.  Sometimes

I break into a run, sometimes it is everything

I can do to keep moving, other times

I amble around like a lost bear, and other times—

More often in years past—I dance,

And when I am fully awake

I see just how many people have carried me a spell.

Most of the time I am looking at the ground.

Yes, stop and smell the roses and honeysuckle,

Admire the weeping cherry, and the sunflowers, I know.

I do my best.  And even though I do not see

Where this road leads someone made it,

Someone else walked it.  It may

Very well end in a ruinous cavern

Or a dark alley strewn with bottles and glass.

It may also lead home.