When azaleas bloomed and my liquid youth appeared
bottomless,
The path in the garden was meandering and endless.
I sang and traipsed about the sundial, ignoring shadows and
rays.
And when the scented melody from magnolia flowers crooned
common notes,
My path became paved and straight.
I built necessary bridges and garden gates and was
imprisoned by their exacting beauty.
But when the air turned crisp, the trail became narrowed by unpruned
shrubs
And rough with rising roots.
Littered with leaves, needles and withered blooms, my walk
grew labored and long.
Now, the cold encases the thick evergreens that tower above
me,
And I struggle to make my unmarked way through a foreign, unforgiving
forest.
And as my way grows dim and uncertain, I realize that I
wouldn’t change a step.
--Vicki Wilkerson
