Tonight the path
is tired of being
a path, would rather
be a leaf. Enough
of trodding. Enough
of this one foot
in front of the other.
Rather to unfurl
and serve and let go
and get lost. Really,
how hard could it be?
Something about
“path” suggests
certainty. The path
feels like a fraud.
It’s exhausted
with arrivals. It wants
to fall off. It wants
to cartwheel across the field
like last year’s leaves
in spring wind.
It wants to have
no idea at all
where it is going.