Belief in a winding road

The belief that a road goes somewhere,
that somewhere is destination worth
exploring ruled my early adolescent
summers and my twenties and thirties.

Any ticket could fly me to the place
dreams turn slowly dark red on branches
until they pop with sugar and juice
falling until they weigh down your palm.

Any smile across a room could open
into a bed where pleasure could ex-
plode into fountains of sweet sparks.
Any touch could ripen into love.

Now that glance is something I
dismiss, when roads lead only
to strip malls and gated developments
I would never willingly visit,

is it wisdom or inertia that guides
me? Can I love any place more than
this hill tall with trees I planted?
A singular love has run its tendrils

through my flesh and netted
my bones. At last finally I belong
to a place, a partner, a life I mean
to work in till I finish.

Copyright 2006 Marge Piercy
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