THE WEEPING ROAD OF LOST

The march down an unknown path,

between a slithering road, I make

a turn too soon, find myself by a mourning

tree. I wonder how I wandered so far

ending near a quiet river, under an arched

bridge, behind an old spire. I quicken

my pace, hoping I find a place to hide.

I make a right turn, then left,

round the roundabout, cross an old

unfinished parking lot. I pass the weeping

tree once more—the branches hang low,

and I realize I am lost again.