The healing
can come with contraction
or maybe expansion,
yielding
perhaps relief
perhaps dread,
perhaps a mounting of tension.
What is left,
and how much,
when the journey of a thousand miles
has begun,
foot after foot,
here, stone–
there, thorny thicket–
there, unseen tree root–
come sun,
come wind,
come rain, sleet, hail or snow,
in torrents or sprinkles,
simple
or with thunder and lightning aglow–
I truly don’t know.
Shall I turn back?
Will I or no,
for better or for worse,
there’s really no way
to do that–
I simply cannot get back
to the exact
place where I once was–
the impression that that could be possible
for me or for anybody,
is nothing more than a tempting mirage. . .
But I could take a break,
at any old time,
but especially if I fall
or I fear I may fall,
to gather the best of myself
this moment has to offer,
and, after a spell,
and choose the right time,
anew to venture out forth,
at such a time as things
look less apt
to go south. . .
but whither else they will go,
and by which route,
I must keep on
discerning,
each bit along my way,
to which end,
I must again and again
tell myself,
I will have to do my very best
always to keep both an eye
and an ear out.
To discover which way I need
and which way needs me,
based on the preponderance
of the available evidence,
even if the case
cannot be proved
to being beyond
a reasonable doubt.
The Danforth Anchor 