by Robert Clifton Storey Jr
The grass, greener and more welcoming, on both sides of this path beckons shamelessly to my tired feet to pause awhile.
To step off of my sturdy, dependable, chosen promenade and rest.
Up ahead, I see for miles what is meant to be seen. What is planned to be seen. What is paved concretely for me.
Behind, is my history. The weary miles of toil to never stray from this path.
Yet, I am drawn to loiter here among these living blades of supple jade.
To contemplate my way, my intentions, my life.
In the distance, across the wind-kissed field of green, I glimpse a different path.
A bumpier, messier trail. One that twists and forks and stretches out in unanticipated directions.
Whose way is that? Whose intentions built such a path? Whose life will travel it’s uneven surface?
I need only cross the forbidden turf to make it my own.
As I lie here staring up at a passing cloud. A billowing, drifting horse-shape feature, free of paths or resting places.
I wonder if I am at life’s crossroads, a place and time to veer from what is supposed to be, to follow what could be, should be?
Or am I merely at a way station, a respite, a pasture of solace along my appointed, anointed path?
Stay. Change. Or fly off into the unbridled heavens riding upon a feral cumulous maverick.
Choice is my sacred privilege. And my unbearable burden.