Image for post
Image for post
Jill Wellington/Pixabay

when I crested the hill
rounding a bend on Route 32
this familiar road, this loved road
suddenly turned foreign
and I spend toward home, uncertain

disoriented, as the road became unknown
where I was, who I was
the purpose of my journey

I found my footing
as I coasted to a halt
at that same traffic light
I’ve stopped at for a decade

but fear lingered like a fine mist
a cloud of agonizing reality

we’ve always been four,
like the solid directions;
north, south, east, west —
stable and strong
and now we’re teetering
balanced on three legs
a tripod of grief

the landmarks can’t save me
their familiar shapes are ominous
as I wander among them
trying to find my place
without the fourth direction

I’m so afraid of getting lost
but I’m already lost
there’s no finding my way
until I find you

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