My Road


life is pulling me
down a road I
don’t know

or do I

if it is the same
road as before
I believe

I missed my turn

or if it is a new
road I’m too
weary to tell

is that the wind

no it is the sound
of my breathing
my heartbeat

I must trust God

step by step the
road narrows a
single road sign

silhouetted in the
surrounding light
beckons me

the pole bears a
street sign with
a single name

my name

this is my road
a way only I
can go

The Season is Changing


I thought I’d write about sea gulls because
I had nothing to say. But I know nothing
about sea gulls. How about the wind?

So, I looked out my window. The branches
were blowing back and forth in the cooling
desert air. Like me. I speak; no one hears.

I need the wind to whisper or the trees to
talk back! Tell me something. The only
thing I hear is the faint faraway sound

of a jet flying overhead from here to
somewhere but not where I can see. Does
it matter if I tell you that I did coffee and

I’ve done tea? Got up for a glass of water
which is very unlike me. I can’t shake it
off; reality won’t vanish, won’t go away.

My mind is pacing the floor while I sit still.
Isn’t it true? You are willing to wait until
you have to, until waiting becomes a test

that wasn’t your idea. I have to accept what
I don’t know. I look out again. The wind is
still blowing. Is it really speaking to me?

How easy to be a tree! Its trust is well rooted.
(Not really trying to be funny; I’m serious
as I can be.) Do trees ask the wind where it

came from or why me? I think the wind
gave me a hint of what I couldn’t see—that
the season is changing for the trees and me.