At the Crossroads
I am drawn
toward a horizon
not as flat as the others.
Palm trees stir
in the ocean’s breath.
A yellow dog
churns down this road,
but I do not follow.
That other road?
Spires of a city
pulse with light
and an imagined music
blows in on the wings of notes
that swim through heat currents in the air.
Not that road, at least not yet,
the music tells me.
What the third road leads to is invisible
behind a denser curtain of air
blistering with possibility.
Like fingers motioning me forward,
flapping like drapes in the sky––
Come here. Here. Here.
Spinning to look behind me,
then in a circle to see where I am,
“Is this place enough?” I wonder.
It is a place known and comfortable.
It has the right chair and a fridge well stocked with food––
familiar objects of my choosing.
Can “here” be a course chosen?
Can we draw new roads through where we are?
Everything is present everywhere, I once said,
and a trusted friend agreed;
but truths of the past are not always complete truths.
We add on to truth like sand castles,
building new towers,
crumbling others in our haste
to make bigger, better.
Truth changes like the sea.
In its entirety, it is the truth;
in each part, part of the truth.
It is a creative endeavor,
this life of each of us––
choosing the parts of truth
to call our own.