Listen to the poem (841 KB file)


The Long Way

By the side of the rutted road
where a ruff of new grass
brushes traveled mud,
I bend, as dried and old
as my strong oak staff

that finds a path
my slow feet can follow.
In the center, rose women fly,
a gust of wool and blush.

I, too, once lived in April
with a light, quick step
and pinks from a beau.

Young laughter settles on me
like the scent of lilacs
or a spring rain,
and then the girls have hurried by,
leaving a delicious peace.

I have a few more miles
to walk in my own time
and the years have taught me well.
It was never about trying to win.