Yesterday a pilgrimage
five miles by foot
to wander into time past
rural road walked for years
in all the seasons:
under moonlight or summer heat with
warm sand to rest upon
snowy tracks on icy ways
bundled against the cold swept waters
always sending thoughts around
the universe unfolded.
Years ago
we heard the owl
calling in the darkness
as we paused at the rise
the road gently led,
just before the death
young and heavily borne
by all who knew her
mournful that sound
mingled with the wind
high in the pines.
When times changed
beneath the stars we
watched the house lights
twinkle beyond our reach
filled with expectation we
walked this road endlessly
but in the end
the scores were settled
with hope our only prize.
Now once so rural,
the relentless development
houses gouge the hillsides
slash the wooded slopes
crowd the waters
poet's lamenting progress
always.
I went in search of memory
and the wild blue clematis
growing hidden along roadside
on slender vine, invisible
strung wantonly on the tangle
forest undergrowth
with four blue petals,
this secret virgin bower,
flowering in spring
sending out it's modest
tender hue untouched by
relentless real estate
just following the winding road
strung like Christmas lights
woven through branches and bush.
Along the railroad track
back into the sun
shining warm,
breezes off the lake
the past now memory alive
hidden from hurried ways
like this tender vine
caught only with scrutiny
engaging the eye to follow
it's winding ways
on this pilgrimage
to memory and tiny bower
that blooms as faithfulness must.
