When moving across 
yard or continent
toward peace, 
across a border
or a walkway
toward something
you hope will be better
than where you are,

you place your trust 
in an ancient wisdom 
that suggests your feet
know more than your head
and your heart know, or

that when and if those
are in conflict, the decision
should be turned over
to those who have always been
closest to the path.  

My own feet must seem dumb
to those who don’t walk
as often as I do, since
I have stumbled more than once
into swamps and piles
of refuse upon departing
what seemed intolerable
at the time, found myself
staring back toward
what I’d left behind and muttering
about my idiot feet; but then

I turned back to the direction
they’d chosen, and slogged on
to the next destination
that would soon become
the next point of departure;

I might have regrets now and then,
might have let my feet choose poorly,
but look how far away
the first intolerable place I left
is now; look at the meanderings
you can read in my footprints,
the magnificence of that often 
broken tottering toward this Now.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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