Path

They told me about a path,
somehow I've forgotten it,
it was strict and didn't feel
real.
There were so many rules, concepts and
cruel requirements.
I couldn't meet them, and have worried about being a
failure ever since.
An arrow of light often comes to
penetrate my heart. It
hurtles up and down my neck
and stirs something unpredictable in the
body.
I'm not sure about this idea they call my
body.
It's a rich and amazing experience,
but what of the path?
I wonder where it goes.
I also wonder why
each step slows me down.
There are many paths, I'm sure,
some slow in winter others sure in
summer.
Where I am,
it's one step at a time,
and the leaves are falling,
and growing.
I can't tell the difference
although I know seasons well.
Some of my friends have
died, and some of my
family, too. 

I ask:
speak to me.
Perhaps then,
I will recognize
what I should.

Which path opens?
Tomorrow morning when the first bird
sings, and someone is
executed
I know my path.

I have every sword known to man,
also the two-edged one known only to
God.

I don't know if there's time to take in
smells and seekings of plants that
grow along the pathway.

That will help when we are
wounded, maybe dying.

Perhaps the path grows the way,
maybe the undergrowth
knows more.

For myself, I put the scalpal into
langauge.
When I see blood I know I am on the right
path. 
How it grows when we least expect anything,
and how the heart shouts out words that have
nothing to do with wisdom.
And the silence that surrounds every word:
what does it reveal?
Pick a stone and keep it somewhere
in its own
silent path.
You will begin to know
if the fishing is good.