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.