ANCIENT PATHS

I walk the old paths now,  
the ones worn smooth by those  
who learned to listen before they spoke,  
who learned to bend before they broke.  

These paths know me.  
They knew me even before  
the long nights in hospital rooms,  
before the quiet terror  
of watching my mother fade  
and flare  
and fade again.  
They knew of the weight I carried  
in my own bones~  
the ache that taught me  
how fragile a body can be,  
how fierce a spirit must become.  

On these ancient trails,  
I pray asking,
Ancient One, give me enough strength  
to stand upright in my story.  
He replies:  
Walk slowly, daughter~  
wisdom waits for those  
who do not rush their becoming.  

I learned this truth  
in the desert wind of El Paso,  
where the land itself negotiates  
with heat and horizon,  
where even tumbleweeds  
carry the art of surrender.  
There, I found my breath again~  
thin at first, then steadier,  
as if the Chihuahuan light  
was teaching me  
how to rise without haste.  

Life has never offered me  
a clean contract.  
It brings its terms in fragments:  
a doctor’s whisper,  
a mother’s fragile hand,  
a body that falters,  
a heart that refuses to quit.  

So I meet each moment  
like an elder at the fire,  
palms open,  
voice low,  
praying not for ease  
but for clarity.  

And the path~ 
older than grief,  
older than hope,  
leans close and says:  
Walk on, daughter.  
You have learned this ancient art:  
To live wisely is to keep choosing ‘forward,’  
even when the way bends into mystery.

journeylifewisdomfree verse

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