What am I but a signpost
left here at these right-angled paths
to point all ways, always;
there is no way, but this.
Full of nothing which men divide
by knowing they wish to walk
this way or that, preferring up or down
after missing the emerald tablet
at the entrance:
below and above the same thing,
no thing at all.
And so I stand, rooted to this earth,
having travelled far enough to find
I cannot make a true measure
of the distance from here to there
and yet remain, somehow, forgiven.
Each sign carefully painted,
pointing at this tree, that apple,
this cup of tea, those mountains:
meant for climbing, eating,
no more, know less:
all of life a lesson
in how to listen
and, having heard,
the signpost sways,
remembering what it
feels like to dance again.