The path beneath my feet
Is one unknown to me.
If I have traversed this way before
It has been lost to memory.
Perhaps, it seems, to be
one once described to me
by lineage and ancestry.
Sicily was often overrun
by strangers to her shore,
Creating new paths to run
new tales of history
of those who had gone before.
Does age create such doubts?
Does age turn straight paths
Into meandering round-abouts
where youthful traffic refuses
to take the time to stop?
Does age create the unmarked trails,
or does youth misdirect those who fail
to take the time to study new maps?
Choosing instead to take a nap.
Forget the nap.
Forget the map.
Become the child again whose life thrives
on striking out for parts unknown
on paths that are not yet overgrown
with comforts and plots we had sown
before we grew too old to recall
what it feels like to stand brave and tall.
Take the unknown path after all.
Live again a life in thrall.
annarino writes 