We walked into the forest,
and talked about how different it was,
compared to the jungle of city lights.
The woods, the path, and song of birds,
are unlike winding jammed up roads.
We move from dwellings to packs we load,
supposedly to find the nature of our own.
We follow the strides of our consistent feet,
with aches we decided was taking a toll.
But since there was no route to begin with,
we discover the quest has an infinite string.
I wish that the compass would point back to home,
but even the maps don’t know which way to go.
We stumble on a clearing, and there we laid,
and think that maybe we’re finally saved.
Travel was no longer the movement we made,
our feet relieved from their daily pain.
But now the hands must continue the work,
for the journey is no longer on the road.
Forward was suddenly moving upward,
and walking turned to piling up stones.
We talked again about how different it was,
compared to the forest, and nature’s choir.
The packs, the compass, and maps we own,
now hang on the hooks of the walls we loan.
Soon the names we make from our branch,
will pick up these tools and kiss us goodbye.
And on that day we’ll talk again,
hold each other’s hands,
as the arrow points to the ground.