The path through the woods

All I know is:  it is never still
it keeps walking on, people
take your hand - they come and go,
you fight for your right to breathe
where you fight to be, you are
wounded, stabbed, you fall, are
kicked, get up again, keep going.
And as you go, the road
wears at you and the years gnaw -

and so you change, grow, mature
like a plant in a garden, lilies
grow tall to bloom.  But then
your blossom is all gone, the trees
thin, and all the people go.

The road turns quieter and more
narrow, but your feet are glad
of the smaller space, the lesser
trial and the walk is more
serene, less pain.

In these days I have time 
to love the sun, the sky
the snow.  I mourn the people gone
in this trail of mystery
and sinew.

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