The Regret of Maps


Years ago 
I made a serious mistake, 
or maybe I didn’t.
It’s a puzzle, a riddle, a maze. 

This solstice, my friend
walked two spirals fashioned
of green boughs—going in, going out.

        It’s a question that haunts 
        most moments of my life.

We set foot on a path,
assuming a destination.

        If I’d known then what I know now--
        how fearful my heart would be, 
        how brown the grass across the hedge--
        would I have stepped outside 
        that brass-knockered door?

To my left, the poet’s pen 
moves across the page, 
each stroke a new beginning.
To my right, a sheet of paper turns,
mapped with marks
indelible as choices made.  
 
Writing becomes a laying on of hands,
and everywhere I look
I see Jesus hanging on a cross,
not always meeting my eyes.
In every breath, there is longing— 
for grace, forgiveness, direction.