Sometimes a morning poem emerges from behind the scenes you are seeing just this
moment, but has been simmering from a life; a lifetime. Such was what I wrote this fine day:
"I give you the end of a golden string,
Only wind it into a ball:
It will lead you in at Heavens gate,
Built in Jerusalems wall." Jerusalem,
by William Blake
Without a care the deer
sauntered casually across
the backroad and ever so
gently into the woods - like
through a door that did not
exist and was gone - all gone.
Like what I remember of the
crossing out of mid-life. It’s
time to trace those steps and
see where I have been - where
we have been. Pinsky of Dante
was spot on:
“Midway on our life's journey,
I found myself in dark woods,
the right road lost. To tell
About those woods is hard—so
tangled and rough…”
Step back out my soul, onto
the road that was yours, before
you did what we must do to
live and survive amid the masses.
Find that golden thread and follow
it back to the ball wound up and
in the center of your you - in
your heart space, and weave the
blanket you will share and some
day leave to warm your wife and sons
and all they bring into this world - both
now and when you are gone. It’s what
we do - we men - when we find our
road - again. We weave; we wind and weave.
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