While running on the road,
I noticed changing patterns
that looked like roads themselves
devoid of all direction.

Black tar was left in cracks
that swirled for several meters,
and then would end abruptly,
and then would start again.

I figure every journey
has one or two transitions
that could be rated smooth.
But looking at the road

beneath my moving feet,
I think the trouble lies
in chapters that don’t go
as well as we had dreamed,

and then the work becomes
an art and grace of leaving
unfinished work behind –
to look for other thresholds

where worth can be restored
where living can be weighed  
where new steps can be taken
and love can bury grief.