The Path

Gnarly trees engtangled by woodbine and thorny blackberries
hide the pathway that should be here, was
here when the woodbine was groundcover
and blackberries followed the way in
a sweet resource on my journey.

Now I've lost my way
lost the path that slides deep into the heart
deep into my being and leads to my heart's desire -- 
this is hard work, this living.

I sink to my knees at the edge of that wild wood
kneel by the blackberries and touch the ground with splayed fingers
hoping my magnetized soul, my free pivoting soul
will point to the cardinal direction
hoping the untended place will unveil the way -- 
This is hard, this longing.

The wild path, rank with undergrowth, confuses my compass-soul
because it knows my choices have lost me my way
choices that allowed many warm rains
to entice the undergrowth over the path
and hid the trysting place like an archeological temple-mound -- 
This is hard, this loving.

So I summon the tools cultivated from a lived life
tools of patience and silence, to clear the serpentine path
and each time I feel the gravitational pull, each time the way is revealed
I know that clearing is part of the work
and I will step onto the smooth, muscular path many times,
only to have it slither underfoot to entice the groundcover over
like an ancient temple succumbing to time.
Then I must relax into patience and silence
to find my way again -- 
This is hard, this is hope.

Because I know, yes I know
deep in the tangled mass of gnarled trees
lies an old stone dwelling. Moss of many warm
rains blends it into the undergrowth
but when I find it again, when I knock on the door
this time I will know what to say when asked,
who is there?