I am again at the labyrinth’s entrance.
No one here forces me to enter.
No one is here. I walk alone.
Circling north, south, east, west – all directions,
No direction. Only partially my own path.
I read this poem by Jane Kenyon yesterday and this morning I thought “She has written one of my daily poems for me. No need to write it again.”
It reminds me of my early morning walk today by a local pond, but I will have to find another moment from today to preserve here.
Walking Alone in Late Winter by Jane Kenyon
How long the winter has lasted—like a Mahler
symphony, or an hour in the dentist’s chair.
In the fields the grasses are matted
and gray, making me think of June, when hay
and vetch burgeon in the heat, and warm rain
swells the globed buds of the peony.
Ice on the pond breaks into huge planes. One
sticks like a barge gone awry at the neck
of the bridge…
You can read the entire poem at a site that helps me with another daily poem practice I have – to read at least one poem each day