In the center of the village
    seven dusty paths diverge.

An old woman lives
    in a cottage that stands
    just to the East.
She watches and listens
    as each traveler
    begins the journey.
Old as the sea,
    wise as the mountains,
    beautiful as songbirds at sunrise,
she watches and listens.

I stand confounded,
slowly turning,
trying to see beyond each path's disappearing.

"Which path is mine?"
I ask.
"I am which path's?"

"All are yours,"
she says,
"and you belong to all."

When she speaks,
I hear the hiss of waves on the sea,
    the whisper of winds through mountain pines,
    sweet birds at sunrise.

Text and
image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.