| The trail was marked and I walked it.
Or near it at least, for it seemed rutted, muddy,
at times perilous…a soft, deceptive caginess that
tended to bare its rooted teeth, yet was not so
unworthy of following.
Fallen trees sometimes flanked it, the still white skins
delicately enfolding the rotted corpses of old birch
that held no more rigidity of spine, instead following the
contours of the stony terrain, they lay in sunken repose
reflecting the toll of many winters.
Some fell across each other, precipitating the slow
strangulation of trunks. Eventually both are absorbed
into the earth…but the living trees are strong and sturdy
for the present season. Their thick branches following
the vertical stance of the trunks are like the creased and
aged arms of Moses, held unwavering by the unseen
strength of Hur and Joshua. These ringed defenders
seem to have broken forth from the very rock itself.
The trail will shift around them, to one side or the other,
before they will ever be displaced.
In the level areas, atop the gentle ridgelines or in the
valleys, the trail is nothing more than a vague pattern
on the rock and soil. Leaves blanket it and blend into
the surroundings, yet gazing up to view a farther distance
causes the myopic pattern to become a strong
impression on the mind. And in the steeper areas
the soil has washed away from around the rocks,
exposing what could be the long buried artifacts
of a civilization even more ancient, except that in
a sheer revelation of irony, it is these unearthed mounds
that bear the first greening of spring with vibrant boldness.
Dense and verdant moss cover every inch,
leaving no barren surface, reclaiming old territory
with new earth and softening harsh edges with
rolling contours so that from a distance it seems
those slopes of green bubbles might burst if tread upon
too heavily.
Even though the trail is marked, it’s not so graced overly
often and there are many forks. Sometimes I have
to backtrack to a previous branching because I have
wandered down the wrong decision. Sometimes a sign
is found that I had missed…sometimes not.
I can imagine the trail widened, the trees cleared
and paved over with an unmistakable sure surface
and a sure destination. But I would not walk it.
I don’t deny having an expectation for my end,
but it is not the same expectation I began with.
At times the trail winds very close to the cliff edge.
Here I can feel the elevation and glimpse snatches of
the valley below, but I want an unhindered view of the
glorious vista and am tempted to push through the
brush and scrub that thinly veils me from the promised sky.
But getting close enough to shift the obstacles
means pushing past the edge and slipping
from the cliff face in an unbreakable plunge.
With patience, I come now and again to openings
where I can view more clearly the sky above,
the valley below, and the hills beyond.
It is brilliant but there is another thought that seems
to me a danger: that I would remain here, that this
is a sufficient end…that I have seen enough,
perhaps I should turn around and start back...
But I go on
in the rhythm of rocks, the reason of roots,
the levity of leaves, the wisdom of wind,
the softness of soil, the witness of wood,
the measure of meadow, the busyness of brooks,
the beauty of brown, the deepness of dusk,
the treasure of time, and the silence of solitude
©2006 Carl Pecinovsky
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