Look now, the hidden road denies these footsteps
their certainty, unsure though they wend,
through what little solid soil succumbs
to plodding, silent shoe-footfall.
Forward slowly, halting back apace,
how often my wayward way, the Way, ‘tis not.
These choking vines abort momentum,
spilling out on soft and silent stones
their devious designs along this rutted path.
A fog, a mist, a nightling now,
I deign to trust what lying eyes will tell,
list’ning instead for the rustling wind
some branch to bow and bend and brush my face
and share with me geography.
Unsteady though the way must be
my hands atremble reach for other hands
for, only then, does lostness find its way.