Follow the Path
Sept 24 2010


The driveway is long,
hard-packed dirt
blind curves.
With one steep grade
that is slick with ice, in winter,
deeply furrowed
by heavy rain.
Or blocked by fallen trees
that lie, fell-length,
like sinners
prostrating themselves.

Acts of God
the fickle odds
of weather,
that leave us stuck, for days.
And each time, we eye the hill warily,
as if in homage
to a worthy opponent.
We drive fast, getting over it,
gear down
in a slow controlled descent,
the engine whining its joyless noise
as if to protest
the first commandment
of gravity.

We trenched it, this year,
filled potholes
culled the rotten trees.
So it will depend on freeze and thaw
blizzard and drift,
the flimsy spruce
we missed.

We should all have a road like this,
a convenient excuse for lateness,
for skipping
unwelcome engagements,
to be storm-stayed
in virgin snow.

Only guests with 4-wheel drive
dare make the pilgrimage,
bearing gifts of wine
some sacrificial offering.
As for us
our daily passage is a kind of sacrament,
a sermon
on the natural world —
keeping us humble
about the things we can’t control.

And so, we are acolytes of weather,
witnessing clouds
beseeching capricious winds.
Attending closely to forecasts,
like parish priests
to a papal bull,
oracles, their omens.

Today, the path is clear,
the road
bestowing forgiveness.
Praise be the plough
this coming winter.



My neighbour does most of the work maintaining our shared driveway. (Actually, 3 of us share it.) He was out the other day, filling in these deeply eroded ruts, as well as digging ditches to help divert the rain. I felt like one of those stereotypical city workers, who spend all day leaning on their shovels watching one guy do all the work. Of course, my excuse is my bad hip! (Not to mention taking advantage of the fact that he tends to OCD, and so takes it on himself to get everything perfect. His property, needless to say, is immaculate.)

Anyway, while he worked, I wrote. (And please excuse the royal "we". It's just that I much prefer writing in the 1st person; and under the circumstances, couldn't very well have said "I"!)

I seem to be stuck on this religious imagery. This poem had none of that ...until the line about the parish priests came over me and wouldn't let go. So I went back and re-worked the whole thing. I'm hoping I showed just the right amount of restraint. Because it's easy to get carried away, showing off one’s cleverness: the sin of pride, you might say!