Take the left path, the steep way down
Through the canyon, where the tall grass
Yields to paw-paw and sassafras
And stands of nettle. Leave the crown
Of beech and gum, look for the stair
Made of rough planks. Maidenhair fern
Clusters along the scattered churn
Of flaked stone. It is waiting there.
Pass through the arch. Not to turn back
Is the way. For one who reckons
By the sun, shadows reveal the track
Through the veil of water falling.
Just ahead now, something beckons,
And you must answer that calling.
Mar 2009
