The Tine-Filled Road

The Tine-Filled Road

For many years, he walked down a road stuck with many forks,
Forks that stood, tines up and polished to a mirrored shine so that
They caught the sun.

And in each tine, his face did pass, for just a moment, as he went.
But he seeing none, not his face, nor the forks, nor even the road
Passing below him.

His eyes, instead, were held out in the distance, by what loomed.
Beautiful and yellow and long away, out on the tiny sliver of the
Tiniest horizon.

He thought it would be there, where he would rest, so he walked on:
Paling sun and drying sky with little plums of fine road dust rising
At each footstep.

Would there be, he might have asked, a place where he could stop
And rest and drink? A cup set on a hook above a traveler’s spring.
And there would have been had he just asked and sought it, paused.
But he did not pause, he walked on, his eyes staid by the horizon.
At the horizon, he knew that he would find what it was he wanted.
At the horizon, he knew that he would find what it was he needed.
At the horizon, he knew it waited for him.
Waited for him: it.

And then, after many years and very late, he did come at last to what
He sought and stood there to behold the object of it all: a mirror set there
In the sand.

A mirror and, in it, not his reflection but there reflected the tine-filled road,
There written in all the images he had not seen, the reflection of the road:
How you spend
Every day,
Is how you spend
Your life.

More: Poetry

[The image above was taken on the way to Kelso Dunes, California, 2017]



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