The End of the Road
July 18 2010


I live at the end of the road.
It winds north of the closest town,
ascending into cooler air
running out
of pavement.

So you’d naturally imagine escape
sanctuary, a haven.

Or perhaps, where lost souls blunder.
Who, at each fork, selected the least likely,
until the road narrowed
their choices ran out.
So here, at the dead-end terminus
they stumble about, disappear into forest,
no clue
what comes next.

Or might it suggest the end of the line,
where you decide
to go no further?
And accept that this is the sum total of your life,
where every preference, intersection
coincidence has led.
Which is neither good nor bad
but depends,
on how you measure happiness,
whether or not
you’re ambitious
or content.

Or then again
is contentment really complacency?
Pleased with yourself for escaping,
looking down
on that town in the distance,
glowing faintly on moonless nights.

Here, even weather is different,
more changeable
with extremes of heat and cold.
And in winter, deep impassable snow.
Where no tracks mar the driveway,
and I’m delighted to be snow-stayed
all alone.