The road I walk is all turns, small and great.
When I look forward, I see no design.
But when I look behind, my path is straight—
From there to here, in one determined line.
I cannot see the daily fits and starts
That hobbled me each time I tried to move,
For every move transformed those random parts
Into a path, like notes into a groove.
Ahead are canyons I must cross or fill;
I feel half weary and half terrified,
And wonder, always, if I have the will
To take these detours and delays in stride—
Then look back at that path, which will remind me
How right the wrongs become when put behind me.
Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells