A day in rags, brittle dreams wake from sleep
like striking a rock of moss bound journeys,
it’s a path, a future
of cherished plans folded into the soil,
it’s a note of song that settles without expectation
on your shoulder, to change your face and steps.
I don’t have a map. I don’t know if one exists
of journey’s planned but not yet travelled.
Those scribbles on a napkin, taken down
from a shelf, marked in the book of poetry
that you’ve read by the window all winter.
It’s a path. The future slips from the page
and waits at your feet. Pick it up.