I lean on the crutch of my childhood
I’m lost, and reminded of a walk many Spring’s ago
Where the paths diverged and I didn’t see a difference
In the wearing of the paths or the scenery at all
So I picked one, and I still couldn’t tell you
Whether I picked the right way or the wrong.

As the sun sinks below the horizon
I grow at ease for these brightening points of light
Are better guides than the sun with its arrogant advice
That pointed out to me leaves, moss, dirt, and birds
But did not and could not show me where to go
By my own light can I read the map of the stars.

By Melanie Allen


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