When time’s relentless progress
dispels the hazey myopia of youth,
the path becomes visible.
We had been taught
the road was linear,
was smooth,
was without hazard:
but here! Look!
Slippery, infrequent,
unbalanced footholds
across a raging torrent.
No matter the direction
our travels dictate,
arbitration rests
on the random placement
of treacherous stones,
rapid washed, coated with moss,
controlling our momentum
through life.
The riverbank seems distant,
and the constant focus
tires body, and exhausts spirit.
The flowers in the meadow,
the snow on distant mountains,
the warming glow of homefire,
all held in chronological prison
by the next slippery, undependable, stone.
When time’s relentless progress
slows with age and understanding,
we simply rest, and appreciate the view.
