The path is bricked,
long and straight towards the
grind of my liquid gray every day
and oft I am caught up in thoughts of
My mind lingers on the what if’s and the
might be’s, whilst companions of the road
traverse to and fro to their own destinations.
But on occasion, I take a shorter route
by means of a different door in the parking
garage. Slipping past
the morning dog walker and the
weeded grass of city managed space
to walk near a house build of
longer days and longer nights
when revolutions were fading but
not yet faded… and it hits me:
the scent of Jasmine.
Not like a strike or a slam
but like a bright sun from a shaded space
wrapping me up in dreams of
maybe’s and possibilities
for four small steps till I turn
towards another road with other
obstacles and meanderingless ways.
And when it is over, and
the world sweeps me back to
the present I find myself in small pockets
of breath longing for the days
I remember to take
the shorter route.