Who folded my map
before I'd even taken bearings?
I've tramped roads just
because they look like ways
I should go.
These creases are
unseemly foldings.
Who folded this map?
This mountain.
Was it meant for me?
See that river?
I can't swim. Wasn't taught.
Ought I to cross? Plunge under?
With this weight?
And deadends.
Who folded this map?
Slide it into my pocket
for its all I have.
I'll follow the smudged lines
and guess the way.
Or I might just shuffle off the page.
James Mills
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/directions/
